You Get Used to It
by megazorzz
Summary: To not knowing what song is playing, or a new gadget, or a new, odd sense of humor. Steve knows that he cannot go back, that he has to connect with this new era, but he's hesitant, scared he'll lose touch with the past. Maybe Tony can help him out. Rating is for later chapters. Steve/Tony. Movie-verse, hurt/comfort, slow-build.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The usual disclaimer. I do not claim any ownership over the characters/concepts used within, nor do I wish to profit off of them.

Notes at the end.

You Get Used to It

The radio hacked and coughed until it finally spat out a station. It was another ad. Steve gingerly placed his fingers on the knob and fidgeted with it. Some voices made their way through the static fog until another rang clear. "Black Friday Weekend Sales, starting 2:30 a.m."

Tony, listened from around the corner, possibly afflicted by that minor psychosis and lucidity that sneaks in after little or no sleep, pondered the possible manifestations Steve's minuscule outbursts at the obviously obsolete radio. Maybe he merely winced, or perhaps a fidgety jostle of his foot escaped his control. He knew of course that Steve merely sighed, his body reacting as it always did, as the Captain—posed, dignified.

Eventually he regained mental poise, and rounded the corner into his expansive kitchen. He slid past the liquor cabinet, grabbing from it a bottle of scotch (Why not?) with his whirring appendage. He had been at his workbench, making minute adjustments to his gauntlet, which concealed a sooty limb. Steve merely glanced his way. After generously dousing his glass plus a little extra, he sat in the stool across from Steve's.

"Ready to call it quits?"

Steve blinked. "Not until I find the right station," he almost-curtly replied.

"What are you even looking for anyway?" Tony took a swig rather than a sip.

"Something I can listen to…no that's not it." Steve squinted at the small display. "More like…something familiar."

The radio triumphantly announced the coming of another sale. Steve shut it off, leaving an audible gap between the two.

"How long have you been at it now," Tony said, raising a brow.

Pushing the radio across the table (in fact almost off, do to the breadth of his reach), Steve shrugged, "A few hours? 4? It's hard to keep track of time when you don't need to sleep that much, I guess. The thing doesn't work that well."

Steve slowly averted his gaze. Tony freed his hands from the metallic mitt, and grabbed the radio. Downing his glass and returning focus to its face, he saw cracks and scuffs, signs of abandonment. No dirt though—no doubt Steve had thoroughly scrubbed it before setting it on his host's brushed steel table. He deftly opened up the back of the plastic radio, and got to work. Well, Tony thought, mindlessly rotating the knob, Steve was more of his roommate now.

Fury had stationed him here after the Chitauri attack, whose aftermath left blocks and blocks of the metropolis shattered. During the first couple of months, most of the team was out, picking through the wreckage, dust smearing their faces. Bruce stayed only a day at a time, quietly planning emergency tents and relief stations, then quietly slipping away. Tony never exactly knew where Natasha went to whenever she left alone. He took another swig. He imagined her darting through, downing hidden outerplanars with the force of her thighs, or slipping into the striated scars of the city, in search of survivors. Sip. And Thor probably spent the first days effortlessly clearing up tons of detritus, arms flexing, dirty. Savor. Steve was here for only hours at a time. Refill. Barton went wherever SHIELD told him, he guessed.

That was almost half a year ago now.

Tony, triumphantly, set down the unit, and a chorus announced to the them, "OLDIES 92.8!" A stillness passing over his body, Steve's entire concentration bore upon the radio. The gentle haze of scotch made Tony believe that it was all in his head, that he had not, in fact, noticed the Steve's bated breath, or the fact that many of his adjustments at all drew his wandering eye.

The beat of a 70s drum machine echoed in the kitchen. Steve seemed to turn back on himself, sinking back into his previous slump—well, Tony noted, as much as he would allow himself to. "I'm sorry I just—I have no idea what this is," Steve admitted, not wanting to deflate Tony's attempt.

"Yeah, I'm not a big fan of this myself," Tony cheerfully.

"I mean, I'm sure I might like it," Steve stretched his arms behind his back and grunted, "I don't really have a frame of reference or anything."

"Why not listen to, I don't know, the good one?" Tony gestured toward a digital player sitting at the other side of the room.

"I don't know, I guess it's sort of," Steve noticed Tony's inquiring gaze, one that did not meet him that often, "intimidating."

"Well it has to be better than this one," Tony's head tilted toward the cracked radio. "Where did you even get this gizmo anyway? A dumpster?"

Steve surrendered, "Not in a dumpster exactly. It was just on the street and I decided to take it."

Tony threw back his head laughing, not noticing Steve's brief flash of color or the streak of quiet incense that filled his eye. "Why would you do that? You know I probably could have had Dummy build something better," Tony finished with another drink. Steve responded with a sip, then grew quiet.

"It looked lonely, so I took it. It sort of still works, I tested it," he insisted, rubbing the back of his neck. "It has knobs anyway, I like those," he added after a pause, as if that reason would justify the recovery Tony.

"But how are you gonna settle in if you don't at least try out my system?" Tony chuckled. "Besides, its much more advanced. You can listen to whatever you want, without all the annoying interruptions. I can show you if y—"

"It's not the same." A unusual resolution clutched his voice. one not easily subsumed by Tony's logic.

A resigned breath took Steve. Tony paused, and shut off the music. "What isn't?"

"I just—I want to get my bearings." He became rigid in his seat, "I'm not used to getting to choose. It's weird I know. Used to be that we'd plan our whole day just to hear just one thing, a drama or a review." Tony craned his neck, ice melting in his tumbler. "Or knowing that that one song would come on. Just after these messages." Rubbing the back of his neck, he stood up and grabbed a glass. He was confronted by the void of reference. How did those decades go? He had poured over history books and SHIELD's need-to-know rundown—but still that couldn't convey to him the nuanced wetness of April or September's briskness, or how time's pencil had blended the two together from year to year.

As Steve set his on the table, Tony's mind wandered. He had lost his own bearing on the time and it had only taken a few days' worth of insomnia to do it. And while he knew that in some moment of stillness, sleep would overtake him, and he'd wake up, tablet covered with the slightest strands of drool, or pen having made its mark on his cheek, but still, it would come. Without considerable exertion or the strain of combat, Steve could only occupy that small space between sleep and wake, like how one would sleep on an airplane, never escaping the hushed roar of the engines, but not being awake enough to be asked if one would like a drink. Tony snapped back to. "Have a taste for it now, huh? Aren't you cursed with a perfect liver?"

"Never had a drop of the good stuff before I moved here. Well, of course you probably have the best." Steve's eyes lightened in small increments.

"You bet your ass I do." Tony stood and walked over to a touch console and swept his wavering fingers over the floating keyboard. When Steve had first noticed the abundance of such light, Tony had noted the darting, studying eyes and stern mouth. Besides the various news sites and his email, Tony noticed that Steve, while competent with his simple laptop, eschewed it in favor of the encyclopedias (updated and replaced annually) and expansive network of newspapers Tony hadn't bothered to cancel yet, but decided to keep since Steve and Natasha preferred them.

"But you know," Tony pointed at Steve with his glass and continued, "the really good stuff isn't in the kitchen." Steve blinked with some small flicker of knowing passing through his eyes, but soon after it evaporated. He turned back toward the pitiful, fractured radio.

"I can still remember the last show I heard…back then." He looked down at his hands, the warmth of which swiftly melted the ice. Tony was silent. Downing the last of his second to last drink, he noticed the creeping blue strands of morning taking the horizon. He noticed a dull ache in the small movements that broke through Steve's composure.

"What was it?"

Steve snapped back to 2012. "Was what?"

"The show."

"It was a the conclusion to a cliffhanger my friend and I listened to when we were kids."

"Mystery? Thriller? Melodrama?"

"It was a mystery, yeah," Steve started warmly. "I used to go over to my friend's house to listen with him. His name was Gene, well Eugene, but I always called him Gene." Steve shifted in his seat. "My mom and I weren't able to afford a radio, so I went over to his place all the time. He lived across the block from us."

Tony fought against sleep. His curiosity was piqued.

"How long did you know him?" Though he was too tired to conjure the reasons why, he sensed that Steve wanted to talk more about Gene than the show. His mind sparked up. An image of an eager Steve rose up; his eyes were fixed on large wooden radio set, while a misty figure tuned it, searching for the conclusion to their story.

"Not that long." Letting loose some small sigh, Steve rested his chin in his free hand. Another pause. "But anyway, the show was great. It was a husband and wife detective duo, and they drove around the city, helping people. It was their largest stake yet!" Steve tried his best to summon up airs of joviality, something that didn't fool Tony, even with his dilapidated mental capacities. "A bank was robbed overnight, but there were no signs of anyone breaking in! Thousands and thousands of dollars were missing,"—Tony staved off the urge to roll his eyes—"as well as a bank teller's daughter…"

Tony's mind was muddled. He listened to Steve's summary, wafting in and out of it. Something about a will or a prophecy or whatever. Still he watched Steve excitedly gesture and gab. The image of them listening entered his mind again. Steve and the misty figure leaned forward in their seats. It must have been so exciting for them, so new. While he sometimes played political talk shows in his lab—just to hear the latest Stark related scandals pointed out to him by Pepper—he never actually sat down just to listen to a drama, to formulate the speakers' faces, their costumes, the way they walked or held their drinks. Sleepily penetrating through Steve's energetic façade, Tony wondered, how did they manage to convey a frown over the airwaves?

"…I never saw it coming! Gene didn't think it was that shocking, but he'd always loved mysteries, so… yeah." Steve raised his hand to shield his eyes against the light. "Morning already?"

"I guess I should get back to it," Tony grumbled. As he placed his hands on the table to stand, he felt Steve stir.

"Tony you need to sleep."

Tony rubbed his eyes and yawned a reply, "What I need is to finish this thing. It's not quite right, or whatever." He groped across the table, failing to locate the gauntlet by touch alone. Soon his head followed, the crook of his arm forming a would-be pillow. And then he was out. He felt himself moving, gliding along the floor, as if he was being carried. What he did not feel was Steve's hesitation, the fleeting moments in between where Steve had watched Tony snore—a modest pool of spit gathering on the table—and his first touch. Tony's arm was over Steve's shoulders, and they trudged down the hall, Tony calculating in murmurs his plans to design this and that, one for a radio among them.

* * *

Notes:

Hello all. There will be more to come for sure. Writing this first part was pretty fun, and it was nice to write something where I don't have cite or insert footnotes every other sentence.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a touch of confusion in Tony's mind when he woke the next morning—morning being a relative term. Though he was now in full possession of his senses, he did not rise right away. From the angle at which the window's light hit the wall, he estimated that it was roughly 4:30 in the afternoon. He often woke at this hour after a night of moderate drinking—moderate being a relative term. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He still had his greasy work jeans on, so he must have been in the shop at some point yesterday.

He yawned once more and pulled off his shirt. But while it was half way off, he noticed an unfamiliar scent on it. Though he wore cologne, his nose had long learned to ignore it; it had once been to him dark and rich, and, while attending some futile fundraiser, his taste had been controverted, a man saying he should wear something more in season, something light for Spring. He grinned. It was a fun coincidence then that the man's wife's panties had the name "April" scrawled across the label in Sharpie.

Returning his attention to the scent, he noticed that it was also heavy, but also seemed sort of dated, something perfumers didn't produce anymore. Shrugging the novelty off, he pulled on a clean t-shirt—clean being a relative term. He concluded that he either slept walked to bed, or Steve had carried him, a concept that gave him pause.

"Of course he would do that," he muttered to himself. On standing, he was met with dizziness, and decided to lie down for a few minutes. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Some indiscernible feeling still lingered from the previous night. Though he and Steve shared daily pleasantries, discussed strategies and war tactics, and on occasion shared an embarrassing story or two from their youths, he had never quite Steve so exposed.

Though some of the finer details of last night were lost to the booze, the occasional downward glances that Steve exhibited seemed rooted in some grazed feeling. Tony yawned and stretched.

Put Tony in some overpriced tuxedo or in the Iron Man suit, he was still essentially a smartass; he lost count of the number of women whom he wooed while in the Suit itself. But, Tony thought, Steve changes when he dawns the stripes. There is a hardening of the jaw, and some nebulous austerity in his gaze. Tony sat up, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge underneath his bed. But take Steve out of the suit, almost immediately after he is altered.

Finally deigning to wander his way into the kitchen, he saw, lying face down on the table was the cracked plastic radio. His thumb made its way around the dated display. He picked it up, and carried it with him back to his laboratory. In the hall he met Bruce, on his way to the kitchen to throw together an early dinner.

"What's that?" He cocked his head.

"It's nothing," Tony almost burst, angling himself away from Bruce's inquisitive glance.

"It looks like it's broken. What are you doing with it?"

"I just need to fix it up for someone," he managed.

"Did you break it on your way out of some married woman's house? If you'll remember, you still haven't fixed the flatscreen TV you kicked through last week. It's still by the stairs in the lab."

The fact that Bruce seemed to keep tab on the casualties incurred by Tony in his romantic endeavors threw him a bit. Tony bit his lip and replied, "I got some slightly more important things to be doing, Bruce."

Tipping his glasses, he smiled and said, "Right. Whatever you say, Tony." He turned, his head cocking in some determinedly knowing way. Tony turned and strode toward the lab. Once Bruce decided that an exchange was over, he usually got his way. He went over the strange missteps of his exchange with Bruce. Tony was a man fully cognizant of how he presented himself—he had to be in his line of work. Even when under the influence, his sweeping gestures and almost intelligible slurs still formed something resembling a type of charm.

Tony respected Bruce, admired him even, but he had no stratagem to interact with quiet types. Now, Banner was a man who faced the world with a subtle network of looks and glances, and sometimes a still, quiet commentary behind his expressions, and Tony could never coax more out of him than he wanted to present. His latest suggestion lingered. Tony heard the sink tap come on, and decided to leave it at that for now.

It made a dull rattle as he set it on the table. Something or other must have come loose. Opening it up and peering inside, he knew that it was a lost cause. Even back when the radio was new, Tony could see it couldn't have worked all that well. He screwed the face back on and twiddled the knobs. He didn't wonder at how much value Steve attached to them, even if, admittedly, it was a shitty radio. He closed it back up and took it in his hands. It was round at the top, with a digital display. But, to have one thing remain the same, even something, must have provided some small comfort. He pushed it aside.

Absent-mindedly, Tony scrolled through his lengthy to-do list. He checked off some things, and underlined others. Even with his insomniac marathon of work, he still hadn't got as much done as he wanted, though he did grin when "Fix what's-her-face's TV" was still unchecked. Then he frowned; not needing much sleep, Steve in his time since the defrosting, had probably seen modern TV shows by now. He imagined Steve again, in his Captain's uniform, sitting on the couch alone at 4:00 a.m. He sighed deeply, the blue glow of the set flickering off of his shield. At that hour, he probably was met with infomercial after infomercial, the station finally resting on a re-run of sitcom from '94, a double reminder of time lost.

Tony managed to type up an email to a developer, not really paying it any mind. On another floating screen, he saw Steve approaching his door, a stack of papers and a notebook in hand. Tony buzzed him in before he could knock. He tossed a grease rag over the lonesome radio.

"How's the head?" Steve straightened the papers before placing them on the table.

"No worse for the wear," Tony shot back. "Though I did notice that we finished the Scotch last night, you're a real party animal." He scratched the back of his head, implementing his casual airs.

"Yeah, well. It was fun." Steve glanced at the haphazardly placed rag on the otherwise clear table. "Anyway, Pepper told me that you needed to look at these before your meeting next week, so I brought them over."

Tony thumbed through the stack, grunting and nodding every now and then. Peering above the charts, Tony saw that Steve had stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled around, ponderously peering at the different instruments and devices.

"What'd you do after I passed out this morning?"

"Nothing much aside from business. I tried sketching, but I couldn't concentrate." Steve emitted a certain jitteriness. Though Tony could not see it, below the surface danced an energy that wanted expression, but the shield kept it at bay, letting it roil.

"Yeah, I haven't been able to get going lately either," Tony trailed off. It was sort of second nature to him now, Steve's way of facing the world; a slight tremor in the eyes, or a prolonged jitter that moved across extremities rather than staying secluded in a single tapping finger or foot, only to be subsumed. "Hey," Tony started as Steve perked up, "you got something on your mind?"

"What do you mean?"

Tony fanned himself with the delivered papers. "Are these all you came down here for or…"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should leave you to your work."

"No, I didn't tell you to leave but if you want to then—"

"If it's okay with you, then can I take a look around?" There was a lurch on the balls of his feet, and an almost invisible exuberance, Tony noted.

"Sure, knock yourself out. I was just going through the stuff I need to get done in my next bender." Tony's eyes met the considerable list again and glazed over at the mass of text.

After a few minutes, he heard a soft scratching behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Steve drawing in his pad, head resting in his free hand. Tony spread out a blueprint on his lit table, scratching his chin, making adjustments; the pencil he grabbed scratching, ebbing in its intensity and focus. Normally, Tony liked to turn up the sound system a sliver under the border of too loud, likening the near-deafening noise to the presence some raucous working partner—an imaginary companion to look on while he stowed himself away in his tech cave. Aside from Pepper, no one (at least, no breathing being, with a heart) had yet remained there for any considerable length of time, instead falling back on the old adage that true artists or visionaries or geniuses or what-have-you works in some hermetic prison of their thoughts. As Tony again refined the circuit illustration, the twin scratchings of their pencils reminded him that there was indeed another person, a new person, at work in the lab. It was strange, but not unwelcome. At some point after their long silence, Steve's pencil stopped.

"Something wrong?"

Steve glanced up then back at his work. "It's nothing, I just...I think I'll just have to try again on this one."

"Can't be that bad. I had to re-do this piece of shit for…how long have we been here?" Tony looks at the clock. Almost eight o'clock.

"I can't seem to get it right." Steve picked up his pad, and held it out at arm's length, squinting.

"Mind if I take a look?"

Steve considered for a moment then nodded. He placed the pad on the table and rotated it to face Tony. The strange cologne from earlier hit him, confirming that Steve had, in fact, delivered Tony to his bedroom. Smiling at this, he pulled the pad closer. On the page was a living room. Sparsely but neatly decorated, Tony noticed a small, wooden radio resting on the small table next to the couch. Every mark and dot was each important, none made with more or less thought than the other, each alive.

"Well damn, guess I got beat out for most artistic, huh?" Tony leaned in closer, trying to determine how each texture was achieved. "Is this your old place?"

Suddenly, the drawing was back in Steve's hands. "It i—was Gene's old place. I'm trying to remember how it looked. I got the furniture placement right, but I can't remember if—"

"You mean you did this from memory?"

"Well, I went over there a lot and—"

"Holy shit Cap, that's amazing!" Tony snatched it back and examined again, "I mean, I can't draw worth anything, even from a photo, but the fact that you remember this after all of these years—" he halted as a prickling heat descended on his neck. Tony opened his mouth to continue, but stopped.

Steve continued after a pause, noticing dark swills that lack of sleep instilled beneath Tony's eyes. "No, it's okay," Steve started, "It technically has been…awhile since I've been there," he sighed. "But I do have a pretty good memory though." The corners of his mouth perked.

Tony examined the larger details: the couch, the painting hung on the wall, and the radio again—wooden, with knobs. He realized how cold and distant much of the Tower must have appeared to Steve. On one late night, he remembered catching Steve gazing at one of the antique coffee tables Pepper had bought on his behalf. She had had it restored, buffed, and re-stained to better smatch the darker cherry wood side tables by the couch in the lounge. He had watched for a moment as Steve stroked its surface, the table occupying a pining spot in his demeanor. Initially, Tony had thought it was just a minuscule peculiarity, but the sketch before him, with its careful, attentive hand, contrasted the dark forbidding aura that the Tower must have imposed on him. "Is it okay if I keep this," Tony asked, much more aware of the echo that his voice left behind in the steel cube.

"Huh?"

"I don't know. It'll add a little personality to the place. Pepper's always saying how I ought to at least change the lighting in here, or hang up something."

"Sure. I wanted to try again anyway."

Tony carefully tore out the page, wondering how many versions of the room came before this one.

"But honestly," Steve started, bringing Tony out of his thought, "I think the place suits you."

Tony cocked an eyebrow.

"It looks like the future, you know? All of these tools and chrome." Steve made a broad arc with his arm. "It is so impressive. I mean, I thought your father's work was the best, but yours—"

"Well, I had a good teacher, I guess." Tony inwardly flushed, but was careful not to let any flutter jump escape to the surface. The two paused again.

JARVIS suddenly interrupted, "Sirs are needed in the briefing room, there has been a disturbance."

Tony and Steve shared a competitive stare, and rushed out, leaving the conversation and the sketch behind.


	3. Chapter 3

The lights were dimmed in the briefing room. A screen appeared before them. Three small red dots throbbed over a map of the city. The team was scattered throughout the conference room, Tony and Natasha at the oblong table while the remainder lined the walls. Steve clutched his pen over his waiting notebook.

"At 8:27 p.m. EST, our radars detected a series of mysterious signals in Brooklyn, The Bronx and Queens," JARVIS reported. The map adjusted itself to cover the specific locales of the signals. All were bordering sparsely populated areas and old warehouses.

"Why mysterious?" Tony inquired sharply. "It's my system, it can track anything."

The AI bordered on curtness in his reply. "Almost anything, Mr. Stark. However, before our systems were able to further analyze the active code, the surveillance ceased and became untraceable for our systems."

"Untraceable surveillance?" Steve bit the end of his pencil. "And we don't know who was watching or what they were looking for."

"Correct. However, our systems managed to isolate a small section of code for further analysis."

"Good," Tony added. "Good."

In his periphery, Steve noticed Tony's flexing fist underneath the table.

"There is another peculiarity worth mentioning," JARVIS elaborated. "The energy signatures surrounding these signals appear to be foreign in nature."

Natasha backed away from the wall. "'Foreign' in what way?"

"Further analysis is necessary, but there remains a significant chance that the energy signatures are extraterrestrial in nature."

Steve jotted down a list of possible. There have been some disturbances since the Chitauri, but nothing alien. Again he looked toward Tony. He was still, a distant look disguising his racing thoughts.

"The squad is advised to be on high alert until our radars detect other such signals," JARVIS concluded. Tony pulled out a spare tablet.

"Has the code been forwarded to me?"

"Of course, Mr. Stark."

"Alright then, looks like I have work to do," Tony started, "I'll be in the shop." Tony nodded in the subtlest degrees at Steve as he opened the door. The Captain's eyes shot back down to his notes. "JARVIS, get the coffee maker ready."

"Right away, Mr. Stark."

Clint and Thor begged off and returned to the training center to spar. Bruce took a seat next to Natasha. They leaned in close and spoke in quick, efficient voices. "If the signal were a communication to an independent cell, then…" Bruce posited. Natasha nodded as they went back and forth, putting forth scenarios and outlining this or that plan of action. Steve closed his notebook and left the duo to their planning.

His footsteps echoed in the corridor. After a series of cold steel columns, a gallery of unfamiliar art, and a quiet elevator ride, Steve reached the lab floor. Slowly the glass door met him. Lights flickered from inside.

He gazed at the end of his finger, which lingered in the air before the button. He could just drop it and leave, go get warmed up with Clint and Thor, or lie down and wait in his room. But, in the back of his mind, he knew that the small gesture would slip back into his mind. Tony had given him an invitation. He knew he did.

Though he wouldn't—couldn't let his mind persist on any deeper quandary of it, there arose a distinct image of a certain neighbor asking if Steve would like to join him to hear a new mystery duo premiering that night on the radio. He remembered the hitch of excitement in his pulse. The luxury of it, he thought. He remembered how he rubbed snow over his black eye to ease the swelling that winter day, to clean the cuts. How he must have looked to him, Steve thought, struggling to find his bearings in the mass of snow. Did he look pathetic, squinting to register the traces of red among the caked flakes? What was that fight over? Steve dug through his mental file on his non-lethal skirmishes—oh yes, he confirmed, a trio of hoodlums and the stray cat. Gene's hand helped him up out of the snowdrift.

Steve returned to the glass before him, and his reflection; his muscular neck, square jaw, with no scars blemishing them—none even from before his treatment. But the memory left him, and before his mind had a chance to protest, his finger pressed the button. The buzzer sounded, and the door slid open.

"Tony?"

"Back here!" Tony answered.

Steve made his way toward the glinting blue light. His hand grazed the surface of the workbenches and the large sketching table. Before a projected series of what seemed like an alien language, Tony stood, rubbing his goatee. After typing a series of lines, he gestured toward an angular couch behind him. "Have a seat," Tony said, quickly adding, "if you want, I mean."

Steve sat, eyeing the blue light silhouetting Tony's frame. "Do you think you can interpret it?"

"Interpret what?"

"The foreign code?"

"Foreign code?" Tony's turned. The corners of his mouth rose. "This is my handiwork."

Steve felt the telltale prickling of embarrassment stealing over the back of his neck and at his temples. Tony broke it by letting out a hardy chuckle. Steve smiled as Tony turned back to the keyboard, swiftly writing line after line.

"No, this is a series of stalling maneuvers. Just so any 'mysterious signals,'" Tony made air quotes, "have an even more difficult time getting away.."

"I heard that, Mr. Stark," JARVIS interjected. "And to mend your weeping ego, I will say this: as far as any Earthly devices go, we can contain, track and decode almost—"

"I know, I know." Tony waved the voice away.

Steve put the tip of his pencil to his chin. "So you even programmed your robots to brag for you. Well color me impressed," he lightly chided.

"Well I wouldn't say—who am I kidding, of course I did." Tony's fingers continued clapping rapidly over the keyboard at dizzying speeds, flashing Steve his pearly whites over his shoulder. Steve opened his notebook, thumb flipping through living room after living room. He inwardly frowned; while he was able to recall the scattering of spots on the stray's coats and the crookedness of the biggest kid's teeth, he still couldn't remember where exactly that damn set was placed.

"Ah, that should do it."

"You figured it out?"

"Patience young warrior, I can now start the more thorough scouring." Tony rubbed his chin again. "We'll just have to wait for a bit."

"How long?"

Tony plopped down on the couch a cushion away from Steve. "As long as it takes until either, A: Figure out what these communications mean and where they came from, or B: The aliens decide to pre-empt us, and we have an all-out invasion on our hands…again."

"What do we do until then?"

"Not much we can concerning this. I guess we wait and try not to get too riled up until something actually bad happens."

"That's what I thought."

"At least we might as well be entertained until then."

Steve startled easily. "What?"

With a wave of his fingers, a small hologram keyboard appeared before Tony again. "The thing's also has TV, internet and gaming doodads, because I'm that awesome." Tony gave a small shove and the keyboard glided over to Steve. He looked down at it, then at Tony.

"Will I mess anything up?"

He rolled his eyes, "How come it is that on the battlefield, you snap necks and smash in alien skulls without wincing and when you're confronted with a slightly—" Steve was on the verge of a glare, "okay, moderately advanced operating system, you get all squeamish? It's not gonna bite you, electrocute you, or email your whereabouts to an assassin's guild."

Steve tentatively raised his hands to type. "Can we listen to music on it?"

Tony stood again to walk over a hidden minibar. "Can you listen to music on your laptop?"

"Yeah, I figured it out there."

"Well, sure we can." Tony plopped down again. A few cheap bottles of wine rested at his side. Steve brought up Firefox and navigated to a user's Youtube profile.

"I really like this one. They've uploaded so many songs from…awhile ago."

Tony liberally poured himself a glass. He handed Steve one, but he waved him off. "Not tonight."

Tony shrugged. "More for me then."

Scrolling through the considerable list of oldies, Tony spotted a few titles he recognized from his years of solitary confinement in his lab. JARVIS was sometimes at liberty to construct his own playlist, throwing in some soft midcentury jazz to soothe Tony's penchant for what he called his, "raucous tones." Tony took a gulp—ten-dollar wine wasn't anything he had to be delicate with. But he ended up liking some of the songs JARVIS sometimes threw in. Even if he couldn't address them out of nostalgia, he still liked the idea of a smoky nightclub with everyone in their boxy suits and shoulder-padded dresses, attention fixed on the solitary spotlight of some elegant starlet. Jo Stafford would have been nice to see, he mused. But, Tony thought, Steve didn't know who she was, did he? He couldn't have, he was over in Europe before she hit it big.

Steve scrolled over name after name. After some time, he finally settled on Dinah Shore's rendition of "Skylark." He slowly lowered his hands from the keyboard.

"Did you ever see any of these singers perform?"

Steve shushed him, pointing to the floating screen.

"You know you can just start it from the beginning if you mi—"

Steve shushed again and Tony conceded. He watched him, his intent bordering on longing. She was probably dead now too, Tony thought. He slouched in his seat and poured another glass. He glanced over at an adjacent screen. The scan wasn't that far in, to his quieted dismay.

Steve leaned forward as her voice swelled, elbows on his knees. He was still. Tony dared not move and stared into his glass. Steve probably knew she has most likely passed away. He read almost as much as Tony did. Steve had passed over her biography page online and hesitantly scanned over the date: February 24, 1994.

Tony's cleaning staff, when taking in the recycling and looking over Steve's leftover newspapers, from time to time collected some that were one obituary page short. But that was far from Tony's notice.

Too soon her notes floated away. Steve paused, face still scanning hers on the projection.

"I never saw her."

Tony perked. "Hm?"

"But we used to listen to her when she had her own show," he quietly trailed off.

Tony didn't know if it was the drink or not, but he reached out and placed his hand on the Captain's shoulder. He faintly winced at his touch, but made a slight lean into it. Steve leaned back into the couch, adopting Tony's slouch.

"We can listen to more if you're up to it. I mean, the analysis is going a little slow for my liking, so we have time to kill."

"Sure." Steve returned to the list of videos and scrolled down farther. Tony stood and returned to the minibar, grabbing a second glass.

JARVIS's voice sounded. "If it would please Mr. Rogers, I can compile a list of similar pieces from my data bases."

"Uhm. Sure." The screen flashed and filled itself with text and dates. "JARVIS?"

"Yes?"

"Can you take songs from between certain dates?"

"Of course, Mr. Rogers." Steve typed in the years.

"Searching for hits between 1937 and 1943," JARVIS announced.

"Oh and JARVIS?" Tony called. "Can you pick more upbeat songs?"

Steve looked over his shoulder at Tony, his eyes moving toward the softly glowing Arc Reactor.

Tony rubbed the back of his neck and flashed another grin. "Well, since my new program is taking longer than I thought, we might be up all night so…why not liven the place up a little bit." Steve returned the smile.


	4. Chapter 4

IV

"Dammit." Tony chewed his thumbnail. "I don't know. It's almost like they're trying to bait us. Why else would they leave all this crap behind during their visits?" The clacking of keys sounded, an unsettling din that had plagued Steve for weeks, even if it was merely artificial feedback coming from the digital board. "Dammit!" Steve sat a table away, polishing his shield.

They were like this frequently now. Once every three days the cycle renewed itself—JARVIS would call the team in and report another set of alien signals blinking in and out, always in sets of three. Each time they left something behind and each time it was just beyond Tony's reach, a fact that his chewed up cuticles and nails could sadly verify. Natasha and Clint were sent out for reconnaissance, but found nothing at the sites, which left Stark Tower's tech the only one up for the challenge.

"They're going to try something," Tony chuckled to no one. "And if they do and I don't know about it beforehand, then it'll be on me."

Steve frowned and leaned to catch a glimpse of him. "He's going to wear himself out before they even try anything," he thought, his eyes resting on darker circles.

"Then we will be prepared for them," he offered.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." Steve paused. "Coffee?"

"Is it still too early for—"

"Irish coffee then. A mild one."

"You're no fun." Steve opened the small cabinet near the fridge, but found it empty. Though, looking back on the last few weeks, he wasn't surprised. He had turned into a sort of enabler. The two had fallen into a sort of routine over the last month. Tony would sulk in small cycles punctuated with an evening of music and drink, to celebrate coming closer to cracking the transmission. JARVIS had become quite the DJ.

Steve closed the cabinet and headed out, brushing by Bruce through the doorway.

"Sorry, just getting some supplies," Steve said as he rushed by.

"No worries." Steve was already at the elevator, trying to conceal a blush, but Bruce knew better.

"How goes it?"

"Same ol', same ol'," he sighed. Tony cracked his back and knuckles.

Bruce grunted and circled around a table to grab his lab notebook, but before he could grab it, he spotted a Stark table with a small to-do list still illuminated on the screen.

"What does this mean?"

"'This' what?" Tony bit a lip as another slew inconclusive results met him on the hologram.

"'Research the Hits?' What hits? The signals?" he feigned. The check mark next to the chore was interesting as well.

"Yes," he lied.

Bruce knew that it likely was not concerned with the recent transmissions, but Tony didn't need to know—his slight lurch at the inquiry was enough to ward Bruce off.

"Oh." In the back corner was the couch as always, Bruce noted, but folded on it were several blankets. Though Bruce liked to gather more evidence before making any hypotheses, he couldn't help but put together certain signs that the alien activity was not the only thing to jostle Tony. He didn't consider himself a nosy person, but the combination of certain factors came off as peculiar, namely Tony's considerable increase in recycling output and the fact that he ripped himself away from his work long enough to think of bringing blankets down here for himself.

"Getting cozy?"

Almost without missing a beat, Tony replied, "Just keeping a vigilant eye on the scans. Looking for some tech to smash. You know the deal." Tony flexed an arm.

"Very funny," Bruce shot back in soft tones. "Interesting."

"What is?" Losing a fight against a bouncing lilt, Tony felt he walked into Bruce's ambush.

Bruce just smiled. "Nothing, it's good that you and the Captain have been getting along so well."

Thinking maybe he could disarm Bruce with some uncharacteristic honesty, he answered, "Well, I've gotten used to having him around."

"Mm," Bruce flipped through some pages. He knew the adjustments people made to hide something, "More than anyone else," he thought. He had to know when someone was close to bursting or shout, or spy any potential outburst that could set him off. Some would try hard to preserve the image of control or innocence with a directed gesture calculated after how they thought they moved—Tony's exaggerated bravado followed that suit. Others detracted from their nervousness with small, continuous fidgets—Steve had started to tap his pencil more frequently, rolled and unrolled his shirtsleeves, but only when Tony was around. Bruce wondered if they ever noticed that. "Well, I have some business to attend to," Bruce said, heading toward the door.

Steve returned and set a box on the counter nearest him, audible clinking reaching Bruce's ears. He counted down under his breath, "Three, two, one, bingo." Steve adjusted his belt and ran his fingers through his hair. Bruce let the door close just enough to let the duo sink into their real jitters, then poked a head through the gap to say, "And Tony tell me right away if anything comes up."

"With the alien junk?" No answer.

Steve unpacked the box, coffee and whiskey first. Tony drank about three or four spiked coffees. Steve had abandoned the shield, which had a blinding luster. He had just finished some wood grain detailing when Tony grumbled.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on, HA! I almost got you now!"

"What is it?"

"I'm so close, so close…ah shit." Tony rubbed the back of his neck. "Come on baby. Is it me? Don't like any of my tricks, huh?" His fingers sped across the keyboard, striking at some unseen adversary. Slowly the puzzle dissolved before him, bit by bit, until finally it crumbled; Tony's pulse turned feverish, then slowly dulled at the conclusion. "Well, this is confusing."

Steve darted toward Tony. On the display, though there were no more lines to go through, there was only a void. "What does this mean?"

They stood in silence as Tony delved deeper, but finding no more digital stones to turn, he downed his mug and rested on the couch. "Well, that's that for now."

"I guess now we wait."

"For what?" He was slowly fading, in spite of the caffeine. The deed was done, but no relief came of the mastery, just an emptiness. The signals circumvented his systems, belittled them. And yet after a month's time, there were no attacks, nothing besides the stinging red pins on a map. Maybe it was some elaborate prank, maybe some other Tony Stark miles away was having a laugh.

"They are testing you. Or they're cocky." Steve kneeled in front of the couch. "They didn't expect you to get that far—they would've written something cruel or teasing at the end of it all if they expected anything—anyone—to crack it." Steve spied some simmering thought behind in his features.

"Huh." Tony gave a reluctant smile.

"So we will just have to wait. Now you know how to get through, so next time you can really blow them out of the water." He paused, and watched as the Tony returned to himself, as the smolder of resolve lit.

"Look at you, making inferences and deductions. I guess I'm rubbing off on you," he teased.

"Hey! I'm a pretty smart fella." Steve felt a flush start in on his cheeks. "I guess we'll know in a few days. If they stay on schedule that is." His jaw locked shut, noticing how he unconsciously started closing the gap between the two he pulled back, hoping the other hadn't noticed.

"Well, I better tell Bruce about the results," Tony started.

"Yeah…"

Tony's fingers summoned up another holo-board while Steve returned to his seat. He flipped again through his pads from a nearby shelf, noting the new trends. The radio appeared less frequently, then sometimes only as a doodle in the corner of a larger sketch of Dummy or of the curvilinear plates of Tony's suits at that. The last one, his best he thought, was when a foggy Tony was sliding the pieces in and out, a sort of anatomy lesson for his artistic benefit. Soon after he was imagining how it arced and twisted around Tony's figure when he flew or flipped, or how it cradled him when he hurdled through the air and into a cement wall.

But last week, Tony had found the mystery duo that he and Gene used to listen to. Here and there, he laughed and chided the small contrivances, but through most of it he was still and attentive. Steve had watched him listening, had seen the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed, or how they widened at the unexpected perpetrator ("How in the hell did your buddy see that one coming?" he exclaimed). Did he get goose bumps at the same parts he did? Steve always thought something like that whenever he snuck a glimpse. Though once or twice, he was sure he did.

In his notebook he found a portrait of Gene—or at least how he remembered him. "It's funny," he thought then. In spite of his preservation all these years, his memory suffered for the frost. But still he knew where his features lay better than where the old radio stood. "Probably because I looked at him more than at the radio," he murmured in conclusion.

"Hmm?" Tony had wandered over to the cabinet again.

"Nothing." He closed the pad and set it aside.

"Well in that case, I was wondering if we could switch it up a little bit tonight?" He bit his lip.

"Okay. What did you have in mind?" Steve sat up straight in his seat, hesitant, excited.

"You'll see," Tony said, returning to his now customary seat, leg thrown over the armrest. Up on the screen blinked up a playlist. First up was Jo Stafford's "You Belong to Me." "Now I know what you're thinking," Tony turned on his charm to disguise his heartbeat. "Since you seem to like stuff up until, you know, you got canned, I figured tunes right after that couldn't hurt."

The brassy flourishes were almost familiar to Steve. She had such control in her voice; it was so full and effortless, nothing like what he heard walking around New York.

"When was this released?"

"Nineteen hundred and fifty-two."

"It's nice. Really nice."

Tony stirred his drink and met Steve's glance. "I'm glad."

"Baby steps," Tony thought. Swig. Steve rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward, letting the swell of the music hit him. Tony knew he liked it. He always posed himself like that when he was deep in concentration.

In spite of their original differences, Tony had truly gotten used to his lab buddy. He couldn't quite reach Bruce's insinuations ("Was he even really trying to imply anything?" Tony thought), but it was comfortable and Tony liked to share. Pepper, good and trusted friend that she was, had long gotten used to his antics and often cut him off in the middle of his boasting (though he should get her a Goya something, for her trouble); but Steve, he would move up close to his tech, touch it and ask questions. Tony answered them all. Steve wasn't afraid of the new, he just needed a nudge.

Steve shuddered as the song concluded and paused, running another hand through his hair.

"Can we listen to it again?" He turned toward Tony. Swig. "It's just…I feel like...it's sort of hard to put it into words."

"Of course, Mr. Rogers," JARVIS interjected. "Shall I put up the projection, Mr. Stark?"

"Fire away," Tony yelled downing his glass. A light flickered, and there it was, a projection of an old-fashioned wooden radio. Tony had studied the pages folded away and abandoned in the recycling pails of his lab, hoping to represent it faithfully.

Steve gasped, inches away from putting a palm to his face in amazement.

"T-Tony! What is this?"

He examined the shock in Steve's face, and, propelled by the haziness about his senses, Tony replied, "It's for you. I mean it's more like…something you're used to."

"Go on, try it." Tony gestured toward the hologram floating before Steve. He reached out, turning the knobs, accessing weather, news, and, of course, the hits, his and ones new to him.

Steve's eyes flashed as he turned from station to station, almost fooled by this or that station, the exuberant voices, the way they inflected, their quiet tones, choice of words.

"Tony it's—"

"If I need to fiddle with anything, just let me know. It's the prototype of this software, so—"

"No Tony, it was…really nice of you."

But Steve said no more on the subject, instead waiting for JARVIS to present him with song after song, with advertisements sounding between songs ("They were pretty easy to find—nostalgia's big nowadays," Tony said). They both took small glances, meeting each other's gaze more than once, and more than once they smiled. Eventually Steve got out his pad, pencil furiously scratching.

"She really was something wasn't she?" Steve said.

"She was. One of my favorites." Looking over, he noticed the pad again. "Whatcha doodling."

"You."

"Well then, let me grab my tuxedo," Tony paused as Steve put down his pencil, adopting a patient manner, "No, I didn't mean literally."

"I'm joking," Steve laughed.

"I am so rubbing off on you," Tony said, playfully punching Steve in the shoulder.

"Well, perhaps," Steve shrugged.

Just then, one of Steve's old radio spots came on, imploring the two to buy war bonds. Tony almost spat with laughter, while Steve erased smudge his jiggling thumb had made.

"I couldn't resist," Tony struggled to say. "I've been waiting for that to come on all night."

Hours later, only a few bottles littered at their feet and Tony was asleep. Steve had placed the blankets over him, and returned to his sketch, working till the early morning hours. Applying the final strokes, he tore the page out and left it on the side table. It wasn't a hologram, but something at least.

Tony's morning, on the other hand, grew complicated, as JARVIS set off an alarm, commanding the team to the briefing room. "This is not a drill, this is not a drill." He started, eyes meeting a crude and cryptic greeting on his work screen. "Congratulations."

"Great."

* * *

Hello all. I finally got around to doing another part. It turned out a bit more fluffy than I intended, but whatever. Also, Troll Bruce sort of came out of nowhere :p.


	5. Chapter 5

V

Red lights made violent circles on the lab's walls and an alarm screeched as they made their rounds. "Shit, shit, shit," Tony hissed between his teeth parts anxiety and excitement. He'd finally be able to face those digital phantoms, maybe throw a good punch Tony skirted across the lab, pants dragging across the floor as he struggled to free a leg in his waking haze. He slipped a foot into his jumpsuit, and soon after the whir of mechanical arms pieced his suit together. He kept the face of his helmet open as he ran to the briefing room.

"This morning at 6:30 a.m., three cars exploded at these sites." JARVIS conjured a map, with three more pinging dots. "A message, allegedly originating from the same source as the transmissions, has been delivered to our systems not five minutes ago, indicating that there will be more occurring in fifteen minute intervals at these locations." At this, JARVIS displayed other sets of points, arranged by the messenger's projected times. Tony counted nine spots radiating from the initial blasts, each one easy to reach in the time limit. God, he was tired.

"As a postscript, the attackers wrote that more risk locations will be transmitted to the base when each succeeding set is disarmed successfully. Thirty total."

"What the hell?" Bruce said, eyes widening. "That's psychotic. Why?"

"The attackers also said that each would be 'mundane' and easily disarmed. The division of the bombs requires will require the team to split up into three units, save Bruce, who will be assessing the situation and redirecting teams, as needed."

"Okay, let's make this quick," Steve announced. Pulling his mask over his head, his tones and features cemented themselves into the leader's mold. Tony felt an aroused acidic twinge in his stomach that he had no choice but to push down. "Natasha and Thor will take the northern most end, Clint and I will take the location on the east side. Natasha and Clint will be defusing. And Tony," Steve pointed a commanding finger, "you're going downtown. Make it speedy folks, lives are on the line."

"Yes sir!" Tony yelled.

"Everyone report in once your unit has been disarmed," Bruce said, a subdued growl escaping his tone.

In a flash they took off. Tony ran toward the balcony and dove off the balcony, his repulsors vibrating in his palms.

Eleven minutes remained, his display counting down by the millisecond. The cityscape rushed past him, blurring his vision at the edges. A pillar of smoke poured from a street corner and ambulance lights smoldered in the billowing remains of the wreckage, which the sun set ablaze with its rays. The winter wind spread the smoky, ominous veil.

"JARVIS, rev up tracking test A."

"Displaying, sir." A yellow filter came over his vision and the small map in the corner, grids tracking any traces of the alien signal.

As he approached, he saw a stream of pedestrians scattering in all directions, cries of panic littering the air. At the press of a button, a speaker emerged and sprang to life. "Everyone please calmly vacate to the north and south." He slowed to a hover over the inconspicuous car, rapidly scanning each direction and waving civilians down clear streets.

"JARVIS, get a scan on the car."

"Analyzing," JARVIS paused. "The explosive unit is located in the glove compartment."

He landed and sprinted to the car. He whipped car door whipped open, and he gingerly unlocked the compartment, sweat making streaks on his neck. A thin metallic tube glinted in the light, immaculate. Both ends were sealed, with a small circuit box opposite of the timer. Four minutes.

A small mult-itool whirred and emerged from his palm, and soon the casing's cover fell away—three minutes and four wires to choose from. His fingers nimbly cut and rearranged the wires, leaving his suspicions at the back of his mind: "They're not done yet. Not nearly."

Through the filter he saw a shimmering blue mass blink in like a choppy glitch. He mentally apprehended a great unheard of eye boring into him, but he had no time to pay it mind, though it seemed to invade his. He fought it until a great hiss filled his mind. He clutched his head with one hand his other manipulating the wires. His mind was on fire as the roving force peaked into its corners.

One minute counted down, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven.

His fingers jerked and his mind was shut again. Silence rang in his ears. The corner was abandoned, though he could feel the eyes of bold standers-by blocks away. As soon as the shadow clutched his mind, it was gone. His eyes bolted left and right, but the glinting shade blinked out of sight. There wasn't time to linger on it.

The timer urgently vied for his attention. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen. He carefully cut a chord, and re-wired the circuit. Twelve, eleven. The timer on the bar stopped. Tony raised an arm to wipe the sweat from his face, forgetting he was still in the suit for a split moment.

"JARVIS, bring up the map. On to round two."

In an instant, he darted up. Twenty blocks west should be easy enough to get to. "Bruce, first ticker is offline. How are the others?"

"Natasha just checked in, all clear on her end so far. The Captain and Hawkeye should be right behind you."

"This is Steve. Clint should be finished with the bomb in about ten seconds."

"Counting. How close are you to the next target, Tony?"

"Right on top of it."

"Alright. You, Natasha?"

"On it."

"Steve here, this site's secure."

Bruce turned his attention to the screen and sure enough another set of targets appeared on the map. "Great. Only twenty seven more," he said through clenched teeth.

Across town, Steve and Clint bounded atop brownstones toward the East River. Clint effortlessly sprung across buildings, using his bow as a counter balance. Steve stormed ahead to the corner, eyes rapidly scanning the street below. Pedestrians blithely walked by the parked car, unaware of the beating, chaotic heart inside. Soon sets and sets of eyes darted between the two Avengers, and their seeming target, pulses collectively rising.

Clint counted the seconds until the bomb exploded and how soon until the first mouth began to paint the air with panic. But Steve's calm orders reduced the potential roil to a low simmer.

Clint nimbly slid down a lamppost to street level and tumbled to the car. Steve kept vigilant watch atop the building. Five minutes remained, and Clint was almost finished with the charge.

A prickle crept across his neck, parts hot and cold. Someone was watching. He kept his pose, refusing to let any tell escape him. "At two o'clock, across the street," he thought. Distant sirens provided the only backdrop. In a split second, he felt a tugging on his shield, like some grasping magnet. His head jerked in the direction of the pull. Nothing he could see, but he sensed a movement in the seemingly empty air.

"All clear," Clint shouted. Steve felt the presence vanish. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Hours passed. Piles of bombs were carefully lined up on Tony's workbench down below, each nestled in an aluminum attaché case. The team sat around the conference table, with one solitary bomb in the center.

"Fascinating," Tony said. "For what basically amounted to pipe bombs, the production values were quite high, 'mundane' units or not." Tony flashed air quotes.

"No one was killed—there didn't seem to be any specific targets. Why go through all the trouble?" Steve rubbed his chin.

"They're testing us."

"What do you mean, Bruce?"

"They're sizing us up. Natasha and I were discussing it," Natasha gave a slight nod, "and she thinks is possible that the purpose of today's little exercise was to find out more about our capabilities."

"But, The Avengers aren't exactly a secret, why call so much attention to themselves?" Steve pushed.

"Think about the instructions they gave us. 'Every fifteen minutes,' 'Mundane' bombs, today was an experiment for them." Bruce answered. "And if JARVIS is correct, they might be outsiders. Maybe more Chitauri, maybe not."

The blue shade emerged in Tony's memory. "Maybe." Tony leaned over to grab a tablet. "I had a little visitor today." A screen appeared with Tony's footage streaming on it. The prickly entity stood watching, and each one of felt its eye on them. "Cloaking technology. Advanced. Either it's a little gray bugger, or some competition who wants to give me—us a scare. Two can play at that game." His smirk hid his unease—if he concentrated, he could recall those groping mental fingers. The clarity of the memory gave him a shudder.

They watched the footage in silence all with the thousand-yard stare the rapidity of thought gave. Tony's extended farther.

"They're not done yet. Not by a long shot. But at least I have this new shit to work with." Tony waved a tablet.

"The Avengers are to remain on top alert," JARVIS announced. "And sober, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah, yeah." Tony rose and made his way to the door. Steve followed him on cue and Bruce and Natasha simultaneously raised an eyebrow.

In the lab Steve watched Tony, eyes running up and down. His shoulders bore some invisible weight. His fingers fell flat and heavy on the keyboard empty of the enthused alacrity that normally fueled them. He scratched his head and even from behind Steve could sense his gaze cast far off, distracted with the buzz of racing thoughts.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Is something wrong?" Steve inquired softly.

He turned. "What me? Nothing's wrong." A smirk was clumsily smeared on his face.

"If you say so, Tony."

Everywhere Tony wandered he gave the corners second paranoid glance. He scratched his head in pursuit of small prickles and sparks beneath his skin. His eyes squeezed shut he pinched his bridge of his nose, hoping that Steve wouldn't notice. What was an hour seemed like two. The shady eye was gone, but he felt that somehow someone recorded his thoughts. He had to be crazy to think that, but he knew what exposure felt like. He finally really looked at Steve—his folded arms, how he leaned forward, and the upturn of his inner brows. Was he holding his breath?

Steve bit his lip, considering the small broken radio that resided on Tony's desk. It should have been thrown out weeks ago, but had endured even among the lab's clutter, always easy to find for Tony's eyes, for those nights when Steve wasn't there. The man before him was released from some terrifying grip but the prints remained.

His feet seemed to walk to Tony on their own. He gave Tony pause, then a racing pulse. Before he knew it, Steve's arms were around him. They were safe and warm—so much so Tony inwardly rolled his eyes at his trite feelings, but still he lost his rigid surprise at his touch and gave in. Steve's skin burned hot beneath his shirt, and Tony wondered if he was always that way.

"If you want to," Steve said, "you can tell me later."

"I—uh." Tony felt a rush of what he wanted to say, but his mouth and the network of nerves and muscles were overpowered by Steve's presence or aura, whatever it was that made time stop. All imbued by mere physical proximity—a fact that Tony couldn't mock or reject. For once, Tony Stark was at a lost for words.

Without warning the speakers came on and started playing Stafford's "The Nearness of You." Tony lingered through his contrived feeling, then muttered, "Not now JARVIS—'top alert,' remember?"

"Of course, sir. My apologies sir," he sassed—or maybe Tony was imagining that too. But then the hug (he guessed he could call it that) was broken.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" Steve started.

"No, no—"

"It was all of a sudden—"

"I was acting—"

"But I was—"

In a flash, Tony's grip was on his shoulders. Warm and rough, these very hands built and carved out of the earth this tower, the very spot where they stood. The suit and all of its cold points and curves these very hands begat. These hands had built the man a heart whose mass hummed and glowed, as much alive as any human one. And they were on him. He fought against a swelling tide that begged to flood his extremities. But he maintained his graceless composure and merely nodded.

"Today was a tad hectic for my palate—that's all. It's not even four o'clock. I don't want you to stress out over me, okay?" Tony attempted a consoling smile and Steve rejoined him with his own. Tony's hands started to migrate south. He recalled them and left Steve's sculpted shoulders with a pat. They were shoved into his pockets.

They shared a mutual silence after that. Not one composed of grimaces and sighs, but was doused in a peculiar comfort. They answered each other's glances; some were held longer for milliseconds they wish they could count. The sleek explosives, having been moved to the workshop, kept a grim weight on their minds, a reminder of the potential chaos, suspended from thin copper wires.


	6. Chapter 6

VI

Four days passed with no incident in the city. No alarms blared. No red sores appeared on Stark's radar or maps. Even the soft network of abrasions against the back of his head lessened and lessened, though the small evidences of the mysterious shade's presence was still sorely felt. When he thought the cloud of code he saw that day he still felt pangs of guilt, then anger. Guilt because he left Steve in the dark, and anger at himself—he was handing over the reins and his peace of mind. One thing he had always prided himself on was how he never played psychological warfare with the enemy. But here he was, checking over his shoulder and allowing fear and paranoia to creep in insidious degrees, gently throbbing.

It was a Tuesday evening and so far the day had seemed mundane enough for those not under the watchful, invasive eye. Steve was reading a magazine, tucked away in a nook Tony had set up for him.

"Wake me up in a couple hours," Tony said. "I don't wanna sleep for too long. Busy, busy, busy."

Of course Steve wasn't going to do that—Tony slept little enough as it was and the rough edges of demeanor could use the smoothing of sleep, he concluded. Hours passed, and as soon as Tony's dream cycle kicked in, there was a shift from gentle snoring to fitful murmurs and groans. Steve investigated.

He slid across the floor, hoping that he wouldn't wake him. Tony lay on his back, hands twitching while sweat collected on his brow and blanket. Steve moved closer, hoping the nightmare would pass. He looked helpless, assailed by a fleeting specter. Steve jumped when Tony's hands began beating the air above him. Panic was wildly painting his face.

"Tony! Tony, wake up!"

Tony grunted, as if some slumberous ear heard, but his fists still beat rapidly at phantoms unseen. Steve caught his hands. "Come on, Tony. It's just a dream." Nothing penetrated through his cloud of shakes and shudders.

"Snap out of it!"

"N-no, no!" Tony yelped, keeping eyes clenched shut.

"Tony, it's Steve! You gotta wake up!"

Tony sharply gulped the air as his head finally broke the suffocating surface of sleep. Steve stroked Tony's shoulders and forehead with the back of his hand. "It's okay now. Just a nightmare."

"Shit." Tony swung his legs over the side of the couch, his lungs still desperately collecting air. Steve ran a hand across Tony's back, tracing soothing circles over the cold, damp fabric.

"I'll get you some water, Tony." Steve bounded up and jogged to the sink.

"What happened? I feel like I've been run over by a truck."

Tony wearily chugged the glass of water. "Just a nightmare, Tony. Just a nightmare."

"I'm freezing. All over."

"There should be a change of clothes around here somewhere. Ah, here we go."

Steve chastely averted his eyes as Tony stripped off his jeans, and found it more difficult once the t-shirt was off. After he was decent again, Steve felt Tony's forehead.

"You're freezing."

"What was your first hint," Tony chuckled through his chattering teeth.

"This is serious, Tony. Sit down."

"Look like I'm laughing?" Tony snapped back.

"Steve opened a cabinet and found a second blanket. "Always prepared," Tony thought.

"It's almost winter. I don't want you—you can't be getting sick now. Not with those aliens are still out there."

"We don't know if they're aliens or not, Steve."

"Well, whatever they are." Steve draped the blanket around Tony's shoulders. Tony snatched Steve's hand and his arm remained wrapped around Tony.

"Tony?"

"I'm am c-cold…and you're warm. S-s-simple." A nervous stutter escaped him in spite of his brazen posturing. Although he was sure Steve's glance penetrated the façade, there was just enough bravado to Tony's gracelessness to keep the mutual lurch of their hearts at bay. He swore to himself he wouldn't flirt—he was sort of failing, even in the wake of his nightmare.

"Oh. Ok," was Steve's hesitant reply, delivered with redness about his ears. Tony pretended not to notice but, even as he put on his airs, even cracked a joke or two as they say, the water in his glass trembled, and his pulse beat noticeably beneath Steve's arm and fingers.

"You should try to get some sleep."

"Yeah." Steve's jaw almost dropped. No curt reply or sarcasm? Maybe something was wrong beneath the surface. But without warning Tony's head lay in his lap.

"What are you—"

"I can't help it if you're super-ness is also really hot…Warm, I mean."

"Ok. If it'll help you warm up." Steve did not mind in the least. "I'll be right here."

"Can you put something on?"

Steve summoned up the radio with a flicking gesture Tony showed him. "What would you like?"

"Just need some white noise," Tony yawned.

Steve put on another mystery. "Mr. and Mrs. Gibson in 'The Mystery of the Jeweled Chalice!'" He hadn't heard this one in awhile. Not since before the serum, the war and Tony. Steve was parts remembrance and willful forgetting before the spectral radio.

He still remembered that day clearly—in spite of his efforts to obscure it. "Steve, stop it. He is most likely dead now. Just like Peggy and Bucky. There's nothing to be done," he inwardly scolded.

It was a typical Friday evening for Gene and Steve, the last night he heard this mystery. Bucky tried to coerce Steve into hitting the town and catching some dames. Steve begged off. "Not enough money," he had said.

The signal squealed and static roared until Gene found the station. "…The Mystery of the Jeweled Chalice!" A mass of voices and police sirens filled the room, and the sound of fire roared on the radio.

About halfway through the program, Gene turned to Steve.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure you can. What is it, Gene?"

"Oh! Well," he paused and nervously flipped the pages in his textbook. "Susan and I were going to a play in the park tomorrow and…"

"That's great," Steve faked. "Are you nervous at all?"

"Yeah," Gene's brown eyes danced with giddy flutters.

"She's a sweet girl. There isn't anything to work yourself up over."

"But…"

"'But' what?"

"What if she, you know, what if she wants to kiss?"

"I guess you kiss her then." Steve uncrossed his arms.

"But what if I kiss poorly? What if she thinks I'm lousy?"

"Don't know what you're asking me. I've never even been asked to go out with any girls, let alone kiss." Gene frowned.

Gene sighed as the detective couple deliberated over the airwaves.

"Well, what I wanted to ask, I mean if you're okay with it and all, I wanted to know if, you know, you'd help me out? For my date, I mean. With Susan."

Steve sweat. "Help you with what?"

"Practice, you know, before Susan and I…"

"Help you practice…kissing?"

"I know it's…" Gene bit his lip, "Forget I said anything."

"No, no. I mean, if you want me to, I can do that." Eighteen and never kissed. That was about to change. Steve shivered.

"Ok, so…" Gene crept closer over the couch cushions. "Here goes."

"Here goes."

Soon Steve's lips were being clumsily pressed against his. Steve responded in kind—with the same steady constellation of yearning squirms and no less enthused. He had wanted this, maybe it showed through his side cast gazes. He was so close to Gene. When he laughed or gasped, just always so close. Sometimes he'd look back and smile. He called Steve "scrappy" and "noble." It was rare for someone to give him a second thought or glance, but Gene noticed him for some reason, hell, even gave a few black eyes for him to avenge Steve's. This was more than practice.

It was no mystery as to how Steve overlooked the signs that were no so obvious: how Gene had always ended up near the middle of the couch by the conclusion of their mystery shows, how he always slipped him some spare pennies when they went out, his hand clasping his for seconds longer than needed, the nervous combing of his fingers through his brown hair and how he had shared nights by the radio, laughing. Now this.

"Gene?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you even have a date with Susan?"

He merely laughed and moved in again, hoping the second bout would fare better. Then the apartment door opened and the radio was silenced. Between the rough hand grabbing his shoulder and bag and the expression shock on Gene's face, Steve had no chance to catch his bearings, and before he knew it he was in the hall with his books cast at his feet. Gene's voice was quiet behind the door.

He gathered his books and ran. All those years ago, he ran. So much for "noble." By the time Steve got the guts to knock at his door, they were gone. "Moved about two weeks ago. Their lease was near its end, so I thought nothin' of it," the landlord said to him. "Had it been that long?" he thought.

No letter or calls. No word.

When he came to, the story was just concluding, then silence, save for the light snoring at his lap. He ran his fingers through Tony's hair and over his forehead. His temperature felt normal, but he decided to stay—even if Tony drooled a little on his trousers.

* * *

He set down his pencil. No matter how much anger he felt, it did nothing to dispel the dreams. It wasn't what they contained, but the after effects—the cold and dark and panic. They were almost like horror-hangovers, he decided. The first nightmare was the worst by far. Steve kept close by. He wouldn't have even thought anything of the dreams—he's had his share of bad nights—he just couldn't help drawing a cold, tense line to connect them. And it all started with that first cold sweat.

A bottle of water spilled out over his desk. He stared accusingly at the offending hand.

"Dammit."

He clenched his eyes shuts. Small beads of sweat escaped his brow and joined the pencil. He grabbed a grease rag and tried to sop up the mess. He was going to ditch that design anyway, might as well destroy the evidence. Eyes were watching. "No they aren't!" his mind protested.

Sometimes he felt the eyes close and felt almost normal. But, even as the frequency that bore upon his mind faded, the eyes grew in their vigilance. He hasn't felt them in full force for a few days.

"I'm back, Tony!" Steve called. "They didn't have the ones you wanted, but will powdered sugar ones do?"

"Excellent! You're a peach."

Steve and his armful of groceries made it to the table. Their contents threatened to spill over but stayed in their sacks. Tony greedily stuffed a donut in his gullet. The sugar dusted the front of his black shirt. Steve instinctively brushed it off his chest then drew his hands back. "Sorry."

Tony only smirked and raised a brow. It was cute how readily Steve apologized—even when he didn't need to.

He reached in and retrieved a bottle of water and took a sip then offered another to Tony, not saying anything about the wetness of the table, or the soaked through paper in front of him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Right now?" Tony paused. "Fine. Fine. A little better than yesterday, I think."

Steve cast a gaze down. "If you say so. But you need to tell someone about this."

"I don't even know what it is, Steve. Maybe stress? They're just dreams. The first one was just a bad nightmare or virus. I don't know."

"Oh really?" Steve brushed another dust cluster off Tony's chest. "Does a mere dream send a fully grown man into a cold sweat like that? Your blanket was soaked, Tony." He gave a mothering eye.

"I know." Tony took out another donut. "Well, at least I didn't say anything too embarrassing."

"You can't keep joking about it. What if another severe one happens?"

"Well, then, I'll have you to keep me warm."

Steve narrowed his eyes, but looked toward the screen seconds before the alarm started buzzing. Immediate action was required.

"Avengers Assemble," Steve yelled over the intercom. Tony darted toward the suits, donning his armor. Steve was changed in seconds and they sprinted toward the elevators.

"This doesn't mean we're done talking about this, Tony"

"Anything you say, Cap. But for the record, I'm totally fine." He wasn't.

JARVIS's voice came over the intercom. "This situation is more time sensitive than the others, so I will have to brief the squad on the way to the destination."

"Okay JARVIS, I will fly ahead."

"No, Tony. You need to stick with close to us until we see more."

Bruce's voice filled their ears. "I'm with Steve on this one, Tony."

"You guys never let me have any fun," Tony sulked.

Tony jetted only yard above the car that contained the ground-bound while Thor zoomed ahead in strides with his hammer. Steve sprinted on the street underneath Tony. Rain beat against his chest and legs. Tony stared. He couldn't help it.

"It is our good friends again, " JARVIS began. "They left us another love letter concerning today's task. A more advanced unit has been left in Central Park. It is our job to disable it and they wrote that the task would take more than basic wiring skills to complete. Per usual, failure will mean disaster."

"How disastrous?" Bruce asked.

"About a five mile radius of disaster."

"Alright, then."

"Alright Tony, Fly up high above the park and do some scans," Captain America commanded. "Thor, bring in the rain."

"Yes, Captain."

"Roger," Tony confirmed. Thick sheets of rain pounded his suit, cold and icy—or perhaps it was his own sweat. The filter slid over his sights. Lightning flashed over the park, illuminating the trees, lighting up grasping, gazing figures in their branches that Tony imagined into existence. He shook his head.

The sensor pinged. "I'm sending you all the coordinates now. It's near the zoo."

"Of course the bomb is there," Bruce groaned.

"Well, I'll take you to the petting zoo after we're done here."

"Funny," Steve commented.

Fortunately there were few people out that evening, and the ones that were sprang off, hoping to avoid the fight. The car screeched to a halt. Clint and Natasha flew out of the skylight while Bruce ran toward Tony's coordinates.

"Sweep the area, Hawkeye and Natasha. Look for interruptions in the rain, they're cloaked, not incorporeal," Steve ordered.

"Right."

"Gotcha."

"Thor, keep the rain going." Thor flung himself to a nearby building for a better vantage point.

Tony landed. Lightning flashed once more. He scanned the figures in the trees—only shadows. Thunder soon followed and clapped greatly above him.

The weapon was submerged in the shallow end of the pool. It was a cold metallic sphere. A timer beeped the time. Seven minutes remained. Easy as cake.

"Okay, Bruce, I think I've located the seam. Prying it apart now."

"Careful," Bruce shouted over the rain.

The rest fanned out in multiple directions. Hawkeye, who perched in a tree overlooking the lake, scanned the rainfall and kept an eye on Natasha, who darted among the brush, listening with a predator's ear. He caught it almost immediately—slant in the rain, the curve of a drop as it fell on something's face. Or someone's.

"Captain, I have a shot."

"Take it."

The second after the arrow left his bow, he knew that it had been a mistake. The slant in the rain deftly dodged the shot, catching the arrow in mid air. It returned the arrow with the force of a bullet. He felt a warm stream running down his shoulder. Nothing important. He drew the bowstring and lined up another shot. He shot four arrows and hoped one would catch the elusive creature.

An almost audible thunk reached his ears. Right in the leg.

Natasha darted in on cue, nimbly swinging a leg around the invisible figure. Just when the entity thought it had her off balance, she elegantly swung another limb to regain her grip. She swept the ground, knocking it off balance. One, two, three, four lightning-fast strikes to its sides and the figure hunched over in the rain. She wrested it to the ground cuffing the extremities together in a hog tie.

"We have one captured," she coldly reported. She stared at the soaked mass and she felt a cold intrusion in her mind. "Assuming guard duty."

"Thank you, Romanoff."

Steve felt the unfamiliar gaze on him again. He saw a shadow in the lightning and hurled his shield into the trees. When it should have stopped it kept gliding in the air, as if some invisible hands grasped it. He swept aside branches and brush as he chased after it. He could not say how he knew, but he sensed that the shield was a point of interest to them. If they wanted it, then he would chase it and contain their madness.

He sprinted into the dark brush, following the metallic ring of his shield as it bounced from tree to tree. He felt the presence ahead of him—it wasn't how it was before. It flickered and didn't carry the substantial weight like it did over on the East Side. No reports in from the rest of the team—things are either going fine or they are about to be incinerated.

"Talk to me, Barton." Steve gritted out over the intercom as he sprinted.

"Just a nick, nothin' to worry about," Clint barely finished the transmission before a jolt went through his neck and head. He fell from his perch—but caught himself in a roll before he met the ground. His head and vision spun—looking for any figures in the rain. In the lightning caught two figures in its glares, casting its shadows on the icy grass.

The figures sprinted toward him, taking him on either side. He drew a dagger, expertly nicking one in the side. His elbow crunched into a metallic shell. He fought through the pain, growing weary as they traded blows.

"We got two over here. Captain? Captain? Shit!" His headset was shot and he felt a blow to his side. He caught an arm, or something he thought was an arm and struck full force at where a throat should be. He distinctly heard a gurgling cough in the rain and sprung on his hands to put some distance between them.

The shield fluttered, he must be getting closer, closer—but as soon as he caught up, the presence vanished. He had been tricked. He darted back, shield on his arm, jaw hardening.. He sprinted back into the clearing and saw Clint fighting unseen foes. He quickly hurled his shield, and it cracked against one of the figures, but it still pursued Clint. The other seemed to break its concentration as its eyes traced the shield's trajectory, then pounced toward it. Steve sprinted, grabbing back the shield, dodging blows by slivers. A crack sounded against Clint's head and he fell to the freezing ground.

By the lake, Tony and Bruce finally worked the panel off, revealing a network of unfamiliar symbols and circuit patterns, a puzzling mage that softly flickered a blue hue.

"Got our work cut out for us, huh?" Bruce shouted.

"We got this."

Bruce retrieved a set of pliers and sodering irons. Four minutes remained on the timer, as the beeping was insistent on reminding them. They practically worked in between each other's fingers. They almost read each other's minds synching up just as they had so many times in the lab when they needed to utterly obliterate a problem.

"If this is true then—"

"This should work for this section—"

"That's what I was thinking. And if that works then—"

"Got it."

"Excellent!"

"Okay, we need to move over here it should—"

"Work just like this kind of reactor."

"Exactly."

Two minutes.

"Just a little bit more—"

"Shit, shit, shit—"

"Okay we have it now."

The timer stopped for three sweet seconds and then resumed its count.

"Okay, there's still something else."

"Maybe there's another section."

Tony rotated the sphere until he found another panel. It was only a few inches long and wide and proved much easier to pry off. Another similar set of circuits met their eyes.

"Okay. We have time, Bruce. We got this!"

"Okay, okay, just hurry." They worked in tandem again. One by one the small sections of the network faded and soon they heard the moaning whirr as the bomb finally faded. The timer beeped three times more then blinked off. They sighed in relief. "The bomb has been disarmed, I repeat, the bomb has been disarmed," Tony reported.

"Excellent," Steve coldly responded.

A blade grazed Steve's shield. He parried and struck the center of the being, his back leg kicking back and meeting its mark. His arm circled in a wide arc, crashing into the other. He sensed the other back off. He heard an utterance of a otherwordly tongue. A great flash of light momentarily blinded Steve. By the time his eyes regained their sight, the figures were gone and the slight pressure at the front of his lobe was lifted.

"Man down! Man Down!" Steve barked into his headset.

"Calling medical now," Tony answered. "We'll get him back to the tower."

"He's bleeding badly, he needs to get to a hospital as quickly as possible."

"Alright. JARVIS get an ambulance over here."

"Calling, sir."

"Thor, kill the rain."

"Yes, Captain."

"Natasha, do you still have the culprit?"

"Yes. He is at my feet."

"JARVIS, call transport from the tower, too."

Soon the flashing of red and blue lights lit the wet path where Clint lay. Paramedics ran out, securing the unconscious Clint onto a gurney.

"I'm going with him," Captain said, turning to Tony.

"You're soaked you should—"

"No. It is my fault he was injured. I need to see if he'll be okay."

"I'm coming with you."

"Fine. Fine," Steve sighed. He stripped off the mask. Eyes softening, he fastened the shield to his back and got in the back of the ambulance.

"I'll meet you there," Tony called after them.

"Bruce and Thor, can you escort the suspect back to headquarters. JARVIS can show you the containment chambers."

"Yes. Be back soon though." Bruce looked at the writhing invisible mass; he wouldn't have been able to see it were it not for Natasha's ties. "I am getting a bad vibe from whatever this is."

* * *

"He should make a full recovery," the doctor said, pushing up her glasses. "Minor concussion should clear up. He had a close call with the arrow. Though. Almost hit a major tendon. His bow and arrow days might have been over."

"Thank you so much for your help," Steve made a slight bow. Clint lay in a hospital bed.

She flushed and stammered, "It's no problem at all, Captain America. It is our sworn duty after all—you know more about that than anyone, I'd wager."

"Yes," Steve sighed. "I do."

Her beeper sounded. "If you'll excuse me, I have another patient I need to tend to."

"Of course."

Tony placed a hand on Steve's shoulder. "I know what you're thinking, Steve. It isn't true."

"If I had not gotten so easily distracted, this wouldn't have happened."

"You heard the doctor, he's going to make a full recovery," Tony offered.

"But what if the next person I was supposed to help isn't so lucky? I would be responsible. It could be anyone, Tony…it could be you."

"You can't think of if that way, Steve. You can't predict everything, you know."

"But I need to try, Tony. I have to. It is my duty. I volunteered. I can't let my guard down," Steve shot back.

"Why do you think you're a part of The Avengers, huh? It's not only cause you're pretty. You fought in goddamn WWII for chrissakes. You survived being frozen for more than half a century."

"I just…I'm sorry, Tony. It's just—the last time I lost focus, someone I cared about…"

"I know Steve." Tony decided against uttering Bucky's name. He wasn't sure he could address it with the proper tact. "But you made the right call. That shield could've led to another one of those…" the watching eye opened again in Tony's mind, causing a shiver to pass through him. He restrained it for Steve's sake. "Another one of whatever's terrorizing us."

"Thank you, Tony," Steve lowered his voice, "it means a lot to me."

"And we are going to get to the bottom of this. We have one of them in our custody. And after we're done saving the world and being heroes and all that junk, we can go back hanging out and listening to music and crap, okay Steve?"

"Okay, Tony. Sounds good." Clint started snoring. "Gotta keep my morale up."

"Maybe we could listen to a couple of your war bond advertisements again. They are pretty hilarious." Tony ran his fingers through his damp, brown hair.

"Yeah, they were." Steve scratched the back of his head. His stomach growled. "It's almost dinner time isn't it?"

"Can you head by the cafeteria and grab some grub?"

Steve looked down at his suit and back at Tony, nearly cracking up. "Uhhh…I don't have my wallet on me."

"Oh, right." Tony opened up an interior compartment of his suit and took out a wallet. Steve held out a hand as Tony presented a few twenties. He pressed them into Steve's palm, staying there for a second or two longer than needed. "This should cover it."

"Thanks."

"I'll stay here and keep watch over Mr. Snores, here."

"You should talk," Steve muttered.

"Huh?"

"Oh nothing." Steve closed the door. He strode through the hospital hallway. He asked a nurse which way the food was. Unable to work her mouth, her only direction was to point a finger. "Thank you."

He was almost near the end of ward when he heard a familiar chuckle. "Well she was always a smart girl—wants to help her mother." The nametag on the door read "Eugene" in black marker. Steve's pulse stopped for a stunning split second.

"I know. Still can't believe she was that interested in my tax forms of all things," a woman sighed. "They grow up so fast don't they?"

"They do. They do."

"I wish you could come visit, Gene." Her tone sunk. "Charles misses you. He wanted to come visit. But his damn boss just had to have him go to the Hong Kong office, on such short notice too…"

"I'll be alright until he gets back. Don't worry about it."

Steve leaned in the door. His feet seemed to move on their own. The woman noticed him out of the corner of his eyes and turned. "Oh! Captain America! Gene look!"

Gene's brown eyes widened as he struggled to sit up.

"Steve?"


	7. Chapter 7

VII

"You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Steve ran a comb over his head. "Tie or no tie?"

"I think you're overthinking it."

"Tony, I am nervous, but still lucid. Tie or no tie?"

Tony eyed the shirt Steve had borrowed from him. It was a bit tight, but not prohibitively so, much to their surprise. It was a soft, off-white color.

"I think that shirt is best on its own. Less formal."

"If you're sure," Steve paused. "And you're sure it's still okay that I'm taking the afternoon off?"

"Yes and yes, Steve. How many times do I gotta tell you?" He crooked his mouth. "Bruce and I oversaw the alien's transfer to his…more permanent cell." A flicker of worry shot through his eyes. "If the questioning goes horribly wrong then we can seal it in with ease."

"Okay." Steve held up a hand. He tossed the tie over the bedpost and peered out the window. It was snowing out today. The park was almost covered, a plain white slate.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you drive me there?"

Tony crossed the gap and playfully punched his shoulder. " Of course."

After the agonizing decisions of jacket versus no jacket, then the issue of what kind of shoes to wear, they were in the car and off into the white frost, blasting Zeppelin. They passed one, two, three stoplights silently. Steve asked to stop by a flower shop. Tony obliged, pressing another fifty into his shirt pocket. "Y'know, to save the rest of your cash for a cab back. 'Just in case' and all that," Tony muttered. Snow drizzled and melted against the windows and at the fifth light, Tony turned off the radio. "When you came back to me and Barton the other day…well, it looked like you saw a ghost."

"I guess I sort of did." Steve scratched his nose. "Maybe," Steve redirected his gaze, "maybe you can meet him."

"That would be nice. He could tell me what you were like before you got juiced up."

"Maybe," Steve softly chuckled. They passed through a dozen more traffic lights, the snow growing heavier. A woman hung a wreath on her shop's door.

"I'm scared, Tony."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"I'm not joking. When I promised to visit I was…I was excited but, I don't know, I guess I'm afraid that he's changed, or I have, or something else has…he looked so frail, so different."

"It will be fun. He looked like a fun, rugged guy. Lord knows you'll have a million things to talk about." Tony took a hard turn at 65th street and Steve braced him against the back of his seat and Tony giggled. "You can tell him about your new life at Stark Tower—show off your new muscles." Ice-glazed trees whizzed by as they crossed the park. "I'm sure he has some fun stories that don't involve Bridge or shuffleboard.

"Tony," Steve remonstrated..

"Just jokin'." Tony flashed a devilish grin that was dismissed as they approached the hospital. Steve became still—he silenced all of his nervous energy and collected it in his throat then swallowed it down to feed the butterflies in his stomach.

"Wish me luck?"

"You can borrow some of mine." Tony tipped his sunglasses. Steve softly laughed and Tony was still charmed by how easy it was to make Steve smile.

Steve returned to his solemn Captain's face and added, "When I get back…well, we still need to talk about your episode last week."

"I know, Steve. We will—thing's are less hectic for now."

"Wish me luck again?"

"All of it."

The card door slammed. Steve smiled and strolled to the sliding doors and waved as Tony pulled away different music blasting this time—"Fools Rush In."

Tony hummed along with the ebb and flow of her voice as he nervously tapped the wheel. Gene was enough to distract Steve from their talk about his nightmares and fitful sleep. But it wasn't that entirely, not close.

Peggy. Bucky. All those souls lost in the war, and Gene is the one to make it through death's net to Steve. Steve would have no choice but to face Gene's aging and decline head on; he wouldn't be able to cast off the brunt of the shock. There was no icy buffer to separate the normally entangled events of death and mourning.

Tony willed himself not to think further about it, instead opting to brace himself against the sure to be unpleasant encounter that awaited him back at Stark Tower.

One light, two lights, three lights, all green.

* * *

"Is Steve at the hospital?" Bruce asked.

"Yup." Tony entered the steel encrusted room that connected to the holding cell. Tony touched a wall; years earlier, when he designed the building, Tony thought he would never use these facilities. "I have the money, might as well have a bullet-proof box," he had reasoned.

That was before. Now an alien heart full of mysterious hate beat through the mere two and a half feet of concrete and metal. A wall of screens glinted off of Bruce's glasses as he leaned to sip his coffee. It stared directly into the camera.

"That's sweet of you," Bruce said, interrupting Tony's glazed thoughts.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"As much or as little as you want it to," Bruce tipped his glasses, but Tony remained adamantly shut against any insinuations that Bruce wanted confirmed.

"All right then," Tony ended it. "Bring me up to speed."

"After its capture by our own Romanoff, the Thing was transferred to Stark facilities for holding. SHIELD was naturally interested, but Romanoff and Coulson were jointly able to convince them to keep it here for the time being. They'll be by after we have had our initial observation."

"Good, good. Smart." The farther away it was from his mind and lab, the better.

"It struggled little, suggesting it has a plan or it has been abandoned by its buddies." Bruce flipped through the file. "In your lab are its devices. One appeared to be a gun, the other a type of Swiss army knife, though you should take a look at it later after today's session."

"Right." Tony looked away from the screens, almost certain that this was the one that has been creeping into his sleeping hours and his daydreams with its sickly touch, though he couldn't say how or why. Just a hunch, he guessed and he never distrusted those.

"Although…" Bruce stopped.

"What?"

Bruce pointed the end of his chewed up pencil at the monitor. "You see that device on its chest?"

"Yeah." Tony crossed his arms.

"We were not able to remove it."

"On too tight?"

"That wasn't the problem." He returned the eraser to his bicuspids. "It was weird. It was sort of like he communicated with me…non-verbally. It sounds crazy, but…"

Tony suppressed his surprise, though he was sure Bruce saw right through it—he always did. "Did he hypnotize you?" Tony snapped his fingers half-jokingly to see if Bruce awoke from any mental haze.

"Almost like the message was transmitted directly into my mind. It was invasive…but in any case, the piece of tech on its chest seemed to be connected to its mask. It told me it was a life-preserving device. I decided to keep it on for fear of killing it, though with those powers…" He shuddered.

"Smart move." Tony crossed and filled a glass of coffee, deliberating under the heated gaze of their visitor. He looked at his watch. Not much time before SHIELD poked their head in and they decided to take the alien. Unless there was a suitably convincing reason to keep the being close to Tony, the chance he'd have to have his mind back in his own sole grasp again would be gone. They'd dissect it or some shit, he reasoned. He looked toward Bruce, who scratched his scalp. Better now than later, he guessed. He motioned to the chairs and they sat. Tony sighed deeply and began as slowly and in as even-toned as he could manage. "I think I know what you're talking about, Bruce."

* * *

Steve picked up his nametag and proceeded down the hall, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. He always found it hard to say no to an autograph request though, and so it took him a while to finally wind his way to Gene's room.

He knocked. A muffled voice replied and he entered.

He crossed with a military man's gait and sat in a padded chair near the head of the bed, palms folded in his lap—they nearly strangled the flowers.

90s, Gene had to be in his 90s now, but through the peculiar synapses of memory and the cold grasp of arctic ice, Gene could've appeared to him as a reckless, carefree teen again, just as they left off, but then the wrinkles and faded countenance set in in degrees too innocuous for his memory's eyes to perceive, but insurmountably apparent. A cast encased his left leg.

Steve placed the flowers in a nearby vase, replacing the wilted ones.

An IV pinned was in his arm and he struggled to breathe in spite of the oxygen linked to his nose, but he was alive, his body still clung to the familiar warmth that Steve had known and watched in the soft, dancing light of the radio set.

"Where to begin Steve? Where to begin?" he rattled out. Steve was pleased to hear that his voice carried the rambunctious pugnacity that fended off those bullies. That the first winter they spent together, Steve remembered.

"Anywhere, I guess."

"It's funny. Last time we saw each other, you were the little guy." He chuckled again. "Now you're fighting alien invaders and saving the city, eh? Just like in the comics my kids read."

"A lot has changed. A lot has changed."

"We can always start with family—the can of worms. You met my daughter-in-law last time you were here."

"I did. She seems very kind." Tony remembers that. He signed every crumpled up tissue, napkin and postage stamp she conjured from her large purse.

"Lucy's a good wife and mother. An attorney too, couldn't have asked for a better wife for my son."

"Charles was it?"

"Yup. He's a successful art-broker. He works at Sotheby's. Should," Gene gasped for breath, "should have him give you a tour sometime. You always loved doodlin' in that pad of yours, I recall."

"That would be great, Gene…when is he getting back from Hong Kong?"

"In a few weeks. 'Big sale, big money, big paintings' he said. "He always loved art. A true appreciator. His son takes after him."

"You have a grandson?" Steve couldn't believe it.

"Yes. His name is Paul." Gene paused and reached out. Steve took his hand, which was cold from age. "He just completed his Bachelor's."

"Smart kid, huh?"

"Smart. Stubborn too and a little reckless. Scrappy, like you used to be…although now I guess you can afford to be, with your superpowers and what-not." Gene returned to his grandson, "He used to get into fights at school. Didn't have his grandpa come and give him a hand." Steve smiled warmly and they both shared a laugh.

"I hope when he got into scrapes he did it for the right reasons."

"His dad called him a troublemaker. I called him principled. Always defended the little guy, just like his grandpa.

"Of course he did, Gene." Steve stifled a lurching in his gut. "The little guy appreciates it, I'm sure.

Gene gave a great cough. Steve grabbed the plastic cup of water and held the straw to Gene's lips. "Paul used to visit me so often before the accident."

"The cast…"

"I like the old idiot I am, took a bad fall and wound up in this place."

"I'm sorry," Steve stammered.

"It ain't your fault. I'm old, older than a great many people get to be," he wheezed and smiled. "Look at us two. A couple of geezers now." He looked out the window and the white capped buildings and dusted streets. "I guess that's why Paul hasn't been around lately."

"What reason?"

"He doesn't like seeing me like this. Upsets him."

"Don't say that."

"See? I'm right. Now you're upset too. Upset at the inevitable."

"It's not only that," Steve treaded carefully and lingered on his words. "It's been a long time. It's a shock." Another pause. "I thought you were already dead." Steve wiped his eye. "I wake up everyday with Bucky or you or so many others on my mind, but you're not there. 'You can't be there,' I told myself again and again. All the years, the war—anything could have happened and…I've had to force myself to accept it and move on. And now you're back—and I—"

"You get used to it."

"To what?" Steve asked through the lump tugging at his Adam's apple and the blur of his eyes.

"My wife…Margaret passed away after fifty three years of marriage." Gene sat up as much as he could manage. "I'd wake up in a half cold bed, get up and make some shitty eggs and burnt toast. Read the paper alone most of the time. Some days it was ok, other times it felt like it happened just yesterday."

"Gene, I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry. I'm just saying it's tough and that sometimes you don't want to get outta bed. But you get used to it because you have to. You burn your eggs and bacon because you're tired of it all and your wife used to cook them all the time. But then you sit down and eat 'em, because that's what they would have wanted you to do."

"Wanted you to do what?"

"Wanted you to keep living—you even more so than me. You have to keep the city safe and all that rubbish. I had to keep living for her, for Margaret." Gene's voice grew thick and commanding. "You are goddamn Captain America. Tough as nails, punching Nazis and aliens in the face—sacrificing a chance at a normal, peaceful life 'cause you cared enough to make the sacrifice, goddammit."

Steve managed to crack a smile through his bleary vision. Even after all this time Gene was a spitfire. "I'll have to get used to it, then."

"You're damn right."

The two paused. Steve picked at his thumbnail, unsure of how to proceed. "How did you meet your wife?"

"We met after the war."

"We don't have to talk about the war—"

"No, it's fine, Steve." Gene cleared his dry throat. Steve held the straw to his lips once more. "After the war…I spent a lot of time alone. Many of us did. Just how it went, I guess. But early one morning, I was sobering up in some diner. She was a waitress there. Spilled coffee on my slacks, but I wasn't there enough to care. Invited her to sit with me."

"What'd you talk about?"

"In between her getting me side after side of bacon and probably a dozen or so coffees—she was still on duty after all—we talked about the War. She was a medic."

"Amazing," Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"She said something that day that I knew I'd never forget…'Extinguishing lives is easy, kindling them is always more difficult.' It was at that moment I knew I needed to see her again…"

They went to and fro for a while. Steve had much less to say than Gene did—being frozen for more than half a century wasn't the most exciting, he thought. They talked about The Avengers' media storm. "Not really good for secret agents to be exposed like that," Gene had said of Natasha and Clint. Steve told him about their living situation, but when the topic moved to Tony, Steve grew shy.

"I always thought he sort of seemed like an asshole," Gene said.

Steve chuckled. "Well, that is not entirely untrue," he offered.

"Don't get me wrong, he's probably one of the smartest men in the world, and he's Iron Man, but his interviews always make him out to be…"

"Yeah, I know what you're saying." Steve leaned back. "But he's actually…really sweet. Not that he would ever admit it. He's sort of reserved about his emotional life, I guess."

"Hm."

* * *

Once Bruce's reprimanding of Tony's behavior had drawn to a close ("You put us all at risk by keeping your mind-meld a secret, Tony.") Bruce opened the chamber. Tony made his way through the sterilization canal, crunching along the way with his wrapped feet and clumsy suit. He entered the sparsely lit room. A bulletproof pane of glass separated them.

The figure sat in a heavy-duty plastic chair. His long lithe limps folded over each other and bent like those of a stalking predator and his arms ended in three long fingers whose many knuckles curled over the arms of the chair. His only coverings were his slick, black jumpsuit, which was pulled over what looked like a hard chitinous shell, and his mask.

Its black tinted goggles kept his gazes secret. Tony couldn't determine where it lay, he was too distracted by the ragged breath he heard through the chamber's speakers to pay it much mind. Its breathing seemed to be filtered through a gas mask on the lower part of its face; it wrapped around the back of its cranium in a network of insect-like tendrils which ran down its back and chest, ending at a metallic chest piece. Maybe it was life support, maybe not—either way, Tony couldn't take it off for fear of harming their only source of intel.

"Big bug," Tony thought.

He sat in another plastic chair near the barrier. The diminished eye in his mind opened languidly.

"Anthony Stark. We at last appear to one another face to face."

Tony faltered, not knowing whether he should think or speak his reply.

"Speaking will do," the voice answered. Tony opened a water bottle.

"We aren't quite face to face. You still have your head gear."

The being snarled in clipped chirps that sounded at once avian and insect-like.

"Unless you want to continue this conversation with our lifeless body, my mask will remain on."

"'Our body?' Anyone else in there with you?"

"The being let loose a chilling sigh. "In a sense, but the tread between my consciousness and my associates' wears thin." The being moved from the chair to the floor. It sat cross-legged and appeared to twiddle its thumbs.

"So you can communicate between each other?" Tony pointed at his head. "The same way you've been screwing with me? Telepathically?"

"I suppose that is the closest English equivalent, yes." The voice grew harsh and haughty. "Your species, having not experienced the phenomenon, has not conjured up words in any language that fully captures the Sight."

Tony drained half the bottle. He has dealt with these types before. The smugness is a tell for fear and can be easily exploited for more information. One only needs to press the right buttons.

"I am not smug, Anthony Stark. I speak only the truth." It emphatically tapped the glass with its expansive reach and sent soft pulses into Tony's mind and edged him closer to the edge of pain. "And you shall be truthful as well."

Tony gritted his teeth. "So long as you don't forget who has who sixty feet underground in an impenetrable box," he snarled as the cold clutches released him, leaving him and the being behind the glass panting, the latter's breathing more uneven.

"It appears we are evenly ensnared, then," it curtly replied.

"Alright, equal footing, I got it. I've been held hostage before. Maybe not like this, but at least this'll be something interesting for my memoirs." Tony reclined in his seat.

"Humorous." The being looked at him once more.

"As long as you insist that you're a guest rather than a prisoner, can I ask you for your name?" Tony sheathed his words in a saccharine amiability. The sarcasm was nearly lost on the being if not for its inward gaze.

The being chirped and cackled against the glass. Tony raised a brow.

"Got a translation for me?"

"I suppose I can conjure one up for you." It paused and tapped the floor again, appearing to be mulling the question over. "You can call me Kaal Tel'vec."

"Exotic name." Tony finished his water. "Kaal Tel'vec," said into the camera.

Across the sterile passage Bruce was watching the monitors. He only caught half of the conversation sandwiched between his bouts of discomfort. "You can do this, Tony."

"So, let's get down to business." Tony stood. "So what are you here for? Family vacation? Shits and giggles?"

"Do not mock out purposes." Kaal stood on his formidable hind legs and towered over Tony. "Your race already mortifies us, do not enhance our disgust."

"Well, just consider me a curious fan. Why are you guys skulking around?"

"Primarily?" Kaal approached the glass. "Research."

"On humanity?"

"Do not flatter yourself." Kaal touched his chest piece and a long archive floated in the air between them, written in a jagged looking language. "Our interests encapsulate your whole planet. It is quite fascinating." His voice lightened and morphed in small degrees into a friendly amicability. "The only reason we focus on your race is because you are the dominant species—that is, you are the ones who pillage your planet beyond the reach of your needs."

Tony shrugged it off. "Get a library card?"

"In a matter of speaking, yes we have. We have infiltrated and absorbed each and every library, archive and government office in the metropolis." He pressed a button and the alien text vanished.

"Big readers, huh?" Tony smirked. "Too easy," he thought.

"I will ignore that, Anthony," Kaal remonstrated. "But yes, we have learned much about your world, your culture. Quite the muddled affair. Stark Industries, even more so."

"Well I'll have to agree with you on that one. But is spying your only goal? Just wanted to read some trashy novels and slip back to wherever you came from?"

"Oh Anthony. If only it were that simple, but out affairs are a touch more complex thatn you give us credit for."

Tony slammed a fist against the glass and left a red trickle. "You said you speak in truths, didn't you? Well how about some more of that?"

"I never said I would speak to you in such a matter."

"Then why bother telling me what you have so far? Why bother telling me anything?"

"Because if I do not cooperate, you shall soon be digging my grave." The being was ready to lash out.

"The back door of my brain is open, why not just rummage around in there? Surely I know something that can help whatever psychotic plan you have."

In a flash, Kaal's hand slammed the glass and sent a shockwave through Tony's mind. "All. In. Due. Time. Stark," he cackled. "What I have told you thus far is inconsequential to our scheme. It does not matter if you know my name or what we learned from your 'trashy novels.' That was mere preparation. As for your mind, it will be trivial as soon as I make a mere scratch deeper."

Tony's pulse slowed and only the collective sound of their ragged breathing filled his ears. He paused—so many questions. "How long have you been on Earth? That's inconsequential too, right?"

Kaal relaxed and moved away from the barrier. "Since the day your metropolis was torn asunder by the Horned One and what your people called the 'Chitauri.'"

Panic grasped at Tony's throat as he swallowed. He remembered falling in the vastness of space and void and waking up to see Steve's glad, blue eyes. "We won," he had said. Apparently not entirely.

Kaal continued. "From your mind I have learned of the conflict with 'Loki.' We witnessed how he planted the seeds of chaos on your great ship and nearly plunged you all into the cold sea. He only had to take advantage of your delicate emotions. Were his methods less bombastic, he might have succeeded."

"We sent him packing."

"You did, Anthony. However, the scenario has also demonstrated to us how easily the minds and hearts of humanity are tampered with. As I said earlier, his blunt methods and audacity led to his downfall."

Tony chuckled. "You call him blunt. What about your explosives, huh? They're not exactly conducive to espionage work."

"Duds."

"What?"

"Duds all. Think back, Anthony. You remember that precisely one bomb ignited the sky, yes?"

Tony remembered what Bruce said that day. "They're testing us," Banner had said.

"So you were sizing us up. You wanted to see how effective Earth's defenses are."

"Precisely. To that end, we wanted to find only the most effective agents." Kaal emitted what Tony guessed was a chortle and Tony's cloud of thoughts parted once more. "It was quite funny how frustrated you were at our crumb trail."

"You're talking about the code you left lying around?"

"Yes. We had tried leaving it out in the open for your Earth authorities—the NYPD, FDNY, even your news and media services—but nothing came of it."

"Well, not everyone is Tony Stark."

"Yes, quite. Only your technology was advanced enough to detect us." Kaal shook his head. "Once our forces met in the Great Park, and we were defeated, we decided to rework the broad brushstrokes of our project."

"Which was?"

"If your team had been more focused on military might, we would have reverted then to full espionage work. Such hostile species have proven to have little mind for defense. If your field response had been more subdued, less confrontational. If your only directive was to disarm the units, then our operations would have become more hostile…more direct. We rarely strike first, but in the face of such communities, brute force is necessary."

"Well we don't exactly fit into those patterns. What's on the menu?"

"You will find out. All in—"

"'All in due time,' yeah, yeah."

The eye narrowed, but lightened up once Tony's stomach growled. "Hungry are we?" The sound its gut ratcheted out was horrifying in comparison. "My apologies, it appears that I too require sustenance."

"You're being awful polite."

"As I have told you earlier, it is in my best interest to appeal to your good side."

"Well you have a strange way of going about it." Tony stood up. Kaal Tel'vec twiddled its thumbs.

"If you are feeling generous, my kind can digest green leafy vegetables. They are not appetizing, but they have kept us going these long months." A strange sliver related to pity darted through Tony's mind. He crossed over to the sterilization chamber. "I'll see what I can do," he answered.

"Thank you. I am much obliged."

Tony walked through and after the cold and sterile vapor was cleared from the room, the opposite door opened up to a concerned and exasperated Bruce Banner.

"Kaal's not going to make this easy is he?"

Tony scratched his head. His mind felt the sweet embrace of privacy, but he feared that it would not be long for this world. "Easier than Loki was."

"At least we all had to deal with him," Bruce said. "But since Kaal seems to only want to speak to you, you're going to have to take the full brunt of it."

"Why do you say that?"

"While we were processing him, he could have invaded any of our minds—I almost felt it—but he didn't. Only you." Bruce sat and sipped his coffee. "But at least Steve got you to finally tell me about it—the dreams, I mean."

"Why do you keep bringing him up?"

Bruce only smiled elusively. "No reason."

"Kaal Tel'vec there is getting hungry. Can you get him some leafy vegetables? It's the only thing he can eat here." Before Bruce could protest, Tony's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. Steve was calling.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Tony. Listen, Gene is starting feeling tired and it's getting late. Can you come pick me up?"

"Sure thing, buddy." Bruce cocked an eyebrow at the word.

* * *

Tony made his way through the hall to Gene's room, where Steve sat attentively. He removed his red and yellow ski-cap and gave a slight bow.

"Well if it isn't The Invincible Iron Man."

"Glad to finally make your acquaintance, Gene." Tony held out a hand, which the other took as firmly as he could manage.

"You too, Stark," Gene yawned.

At once Steve was at his side, "Don't over-exert yourself, Gene." Steve pulled up Gene's covers while a nurse checked his IV. "Get some rest."

Gene's astute eyes darted between Tony and Steve as the former slung an arm around the latter's shoulder. Steve grabbed his coat. "I'll be back to see you tomorrow, okay? We'll talk more then," Steve said as he glanced at Tony, who gave him a warm affirming nod.

"Yes, Steve." Gene yawned and coughed.

* * *

The drive to Tony's favorite pizza place was quiet, as was the dinner itself. They walked in, both drained and fighting against their biting hunger. They both easily finished off the largest pie they had and were contemplating another when Steve finally spoke up, "He's dying isn't he?"

Tony looked up from the laminated menu, unsure who Steve was talking about. "Gene?"

Steve tore up the paper wrapper of his bendy straw. "Yes."

Tony reached over and pressed his hands on Steve's and getting pizza grease on his cashmere overcoat. He didn't have anything he could say. He was never good at this emotional stuff. But somehow his touch was enough, and they both caught a fluttering moment of relief, in spite of it all.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII

Early that morning, after spending quiet hours drinking burnt coffee and talking about the snow, this or that art show—anything to distract them from their quiet shadows of doubt—Steve and Tony returned to the Tower.

They rode to the upper floors in the elevator, Tony swaying with sleep while Steve stood, rigid and spent.

"This is my floor," Steve murmured. Tony had no snappy reply. He only turned to Steve and looked up into his eyes, lurching ever so closer. Steve noticed.

"Goodnight, Tony." Steve said.

"Yeah. Goodnight Steve." The doors closed as he looked back at Tony.

They restlessly lay in their beds, Tony curled in a ball and Steve clenching his eyes shut, wishing he could just shut off for an hour.

When day finally broke out across the New York skyline, Steve decided to get up. No use in trying to will himself to sleep, he might as well be useful.

Tony managed to drift off for a few hours of blessedly dreamless sleep. He woke to the smell of bacon. He rubbed his eyes and threw a robe over his shoulders.

Out in the penthouse's kitchen, Steve was at work, pouring batter into the waffle iron.

"Good morning?" Tony yawned.

"Morning." Steve swiftly set the table. "How'd you sleep?"

"Hardly."

"Same." Steve poured them coffee. "Thought I'd make breakfast. JARVIS let me in."

"I can see that." Tony yawned again, forcing Steve to look away from his bare chest.

"Bruce gave me this," Steve said, conjuring up a file.

Tony took it from him and scratched his neck. It was a report from Coulson. He and SHIELD had paid their visit. Bruce explained to them the situation and showed them the tapes. The organization has decided to let Tony's interviews develop and that there would be another check-in again within 48 hours.

"Looks like I'll be spending a couple more days with our little friend."

"Which is why I'm making you breakfast. You have a long day ahead of you."

As Tony approached the monitors, his eye caught another log from Bruce. Hours of stillness and silence were expected from their captive, but not the retching noises that came after his meal last evening.

Tony steeled himself and approached Kaal's cell through the sterilization chamber.

"Ah. He returns to inundate us with your tireless inquiry."

"Good morning, Kaal." Tony pulled up a chair and sat down, setting his bag to the side.

"Your SHIELD agency seems efficient. It took us quite some time to uncover them." Kaal spread out his legs limbs on the solitary stool and fussed with a wire on its chest. "The one they call 'Coulson' visited our cell…I was unable to penetrate through to his thoughts. Like a steel cage, that one, though it was pleasant to finally meet him face-to-face."

"You won't have to worry about him. SHIELD is leaving you with us until you cohorts are pinned under glass."

"Humorous," Kaal's voice rattled. "I told Coulson nothing. But my, was he patient. His gaze hunted us down for many hours."

"Ah, are 'we' feeling talkative today?"

"In what matter?"

"Are you in contact with the others?"

Kaal nodded. "My associates even now skitter about. They are quite busy." Kaal brought his legs back to his thorax. "Panic took hold of them, yes. But it passed quickly."

"Glad to hear it. Can't wait for a reunion." Tony retrieved yet another donut from his bag.

"You abandoned our dinner date last night," Kaal said, something slithering like contempt in its utterance.

"You still feel sick physically?"

Kaal glared at him through darkened lenses. The mask was beginning to irritate Tony, but he let it pass.

"Seems like," Tony flipped through Bruce's log, "you got a little sick after your dinner last night. Just wondering if you are feeling better."

"It happens on occasion," Kaal let loose what Tony guessed was a cough. "It is nothing that I am not trained to handle. "

"Good to hear," Tony said, unsure if he meant it sarcastically or not. "Well, I'm here to keep you company now," Tony chided. After a pause and a clearing his throat, he continued. "So will I be talking to all of you today, or just Kaal Tel'vec?"

"We suppose it would be simpler if only 'I' were here." Kaal paused for a moment. "They will still listen, of course. We are never truly apart, after all."

"Of course," Tony groaned. He reached in his bag again and pulled out a large bag of spinach. "Brought some breakfast for you," Tony muttered.

"Hm."

Tony stood and walked over to the small glass drawer and shoved the bag to the other side. Kaal approached the offering cautiously. Its long fingers ripped open the bag and brought the leaves to his chest. A small compartment whirred open and small mechanic tendrils collected the leaves. It hissed shut and Kaal let a small, disgusted quiver escape him as he returned to the stool.

"A sterilization chamber, much like the one you have here," Kaal answered, sensing Tony's unasked question. Kaal pointed to a tube running from his chest to his side. "This vent leads directly to our digestive systems. One can never be too prudent while one travels." Kaal returned to his stool, taking slow ponderous steps. It hunched slightly, as if trying to imperceptibly cradle a quieted pain in his side.

"You do a lot of sight seeing?" Tony asked, mouth half-full of a frosted donut.

"Yes. My associates and I have visited many different realms." Kaal threw a wide arc with his arms. "We have seen the flow of magma streak foreign horizons, rivers rush and fall over great chasms into black, mighty depths, witnessed the bloom of wild flora. And we have studied fauna as they grow old and wither, never aware of our vigilant gaze."

"But why?"

"Research."

"But to what end?"

Kaal's normally busy fingers gave pause. Tony sensed a network of gears grinding slowly on the other side of the glass.

"We suppose we can tell you about our history. Such things do not jeopardize our immediate objectives. Perhaps then you can extrapolate why we do what we must."

"Fire away," Tony piped up, coffee thermos in hand.

Kaal crawled from his post and crossed his legs on the floor. He placed his hands in his lap. Quiet insect-like chirps escaped through the barrier. The eyelids snapped open in Tony's consciousness, flooding his brain.

"Long ago," Kaal began, "our society prospered...Nestled on a band of massive islands, between the great oceans Kreetalaar'Ta and Kuinus'Ta, our people built great spires and sprawling metropolises. Our people thrummed as one Swarm, Kalu Et'Ta."

"So you all communicate via hive mind?"

"Save your inquiries, Anthony," Kaal softly commanded. It paused. "Can you fathom it? I think not. Your kind is not accustomed to being fully cognizant of more than the hum of your own, singular consciousness." Kaal paused emphatically and stroked the ground with its foot. "Even as we speak colonies of ants carve through sands and soils—unified in selfless purpose, ever working and diligent."

"Have you been to New York?" Tony interjected.

"Your people collaborate and make deals." Kaal riposted. It shot a glance to the ceiling. "Your settlement scrapes the clouds, yes. Collaboration is mere chaos in the face of our collective purpose and advanced communication."

Tony gulped his coffee.

"Humanity can only function in terms of 'sides,' only meeting to pitch themselves at one another," Kaal said, separating its hands with the full breadth of his arms' span.

"So you're saying that your species have never warred?" Tony piped up. "Is there no conflict in space, or is humanity just royally fucking up?"

Kaal's head hung low and thoughtful. "This age of perfection was long ago, Anthony. Before our time." The being returned to its gaze, Tony felt pangs of longing in his vibrations. "Cut deep enough, and the convalescence of scars last millennia." The eye in Tony's eye narrowed in judgment. "However, our society at its worst is still more in tune with one another's needs and fears than yours is at their best, it seems."

Tony set aside his thermos. "Well, what happened?"

"When our society, in wondrous harmony started to reach out to the sky as a hive, constructed great chasms of cities. But soon the great mines were squandered. The soaring numbers of our populace ate too much of our home."

"Resources. It always boils down to resources." Tony took a swig from his thermos.

"And resourceful we were. We caught comets in our solar system with great nets, pulling them close to mine their depths, just as our ancestors pulled schools of life from the great oceans. On other comets we cultivated grand gardens. Imagine it, Anthony—great expanses of sustenance growing in the vast, craggy hollows of the rushing giants." Kaal looked up again. "Life again continued as it did. We expanded our landmass and consumed more and more of our sacred oceans—the great Hive demanded it. We continued to build and expand…until the unthinkable occurred."

Tony was on this third donut. "The net…"

"The fates had chosen the most infinitesimally small strand of circumstances…It was pure disaster. A great severance in our floating mines sent a rain of death and destruction on our metropolis. Fire and rock curtained the landscape, crushing our structures and spires and casting the remains in the billowing shadow of ashen pillars."

"But your engineers…from the sound of it, they were almost perfect." Tony flipped through the log again, but only to occupy his now fidgety hands. How many things could have gone wrong for him? Though he was loath to think it in words, a small pool of pity built up in his consciousness—how could it not? One minute you're a hero, pushing your kind farther and farther into the future, and the next you're a pariah, scorned for manipulating nature herself.

"They were duly punished," Kaal whispered in dulcet tones. At Tony's widening eyes, Kaal added, "It was a bitter ordeal, but necessary."

"Why punish them for an accident?"

"When minds and hearts unite, it gives one perspective and understanding. The great Swarm demands that those who cannot meld sufficiently to be disposed of." Kaal paused once more and then hissed at Tony's internal disbelief, "Surely you understand."

Tony paused again, finished his coffee. Preservation and the culling of the unfit were parts grand order and heinous fear—it was black and white for their kind.

"How were they punished?" he at last asked.

"You are asking what is done to the individual, not one who is used to the rushing winds of his kind, all singing in chorus upon chorus." Kaal lowered his head. "Your nation requires death. But we banish." There was a low steady ripple of mourning and fear pulsing through Kaal's mental eye. "Their strands, which once connected them to the lifeblood of our people, were cut off…and they were sent off to corners of the galaxy unknown. It is the most severe punishment that we administer. And the command to be met unanimously by our most powerful jurists." Kaal drew his limbs toward his thorax.

"I guess I wouldn't understand that, Kaal."

"Would you not? Are so sure, Anthony? Imagine waking up alone, where the every familiar face and heart were only to be found in your memories, ones which fade day by day as you trudge and toil on a lonesome road. Imagine all of your hope lost and irrecoverable. Imagine looking to your partner and seeing the sorrow painted across their brow, a manifestation of pain which only serves to confirm your own." Kaal raised his cold, distant stare to Tony and touched the bulletproof glass. Tony clutched his head and rocked in his seat. Kaal hissed in painful echoes, "Imagine your life without your Virginia Potts or even your synthetic life forms. Imagine it without your Steve Rogers."

At the mention of Steve's name, the echoes abruptly ceased. Tony blinked, wondering if Kaal would again inundate him with striations of stress and pain, but Tony saw Kaal cough audibly on the other side of the glass, holding his side again, suffering.

Tony waited for Kaal's coughing to subside, some force similar to pity compelling him to do so. "Why Steve?"

"Foolish human, do you not know your own heart?" Kaal let loose a chattering noise that Tony guessed was laughter. "Pity. It is the closest thing to the Hive that your kind experiences, yet you do not acknowledge it."

"I don't see how that has anything to do with our conversation," Tony sternly said through his teeth. The suggestion caught him off-guard. Tony's mind drifted to scenes of Steve—his smiles and grimaces, always his eyes. Kaal looked in too, and Tony banished the images from his mind, as loath as he was to do so. "Let's get back on track, huh? So your government banished the 'guilty' engineers. What then? There's still the problem of resources," Tony said in rapid succession. He wanted to build pressure and tension, regain control of the flow of words.

"Now we come back to our purpose," Kaal growled. "With the great nets destroyed, our people turned fearful." Kaal scratched the ground. "It is as you say, Anthony. It is all about resources."

Suddenly a violent click rang in Tony's mind. Resources of course. The spying and information gathering were all preliminary measures. And if it was as Kaal said, then its race's unity poses a beautifully horrific threat. It seems like they got a pretty good head start as well.

"Ah. Now you understand." Kaal continued solemnly. "After the great disaster, we began to rebuild. We would not again build nets to capture space's wanderers. To do so would be to invite more flame and destruction—your language calls it 'hubris.'" Kaal made another arc with his arms. "And so our fanned out into the vastness of space, carving out foreign planets so that we may one day heal our blistering scar. Our vibrant thrum is dulled and thin, yes, but such measures are necessary."

"So if a planet's uninhabited?"

"We simply build."

"And if it is?"

"We watch," Kaal said low and deep.

Silence was the only reply Tony could give. New York was still mending itself as well, snow and dust salting the wound. The happenstance was not lost on him. He raised his eyes to Kaal, this being with a mission and plan. Killing him would be killing his kind—a slow and bitter death. But he thought of Steve.

Suddenly, Kaal raised his head, as if scanning a distant horizon. "I must rest, Anthony. I will go nowhere, or plot, but I must rest..."

Tony stood and took the bag with him. He was uneasy—he didn't know if it was ruse or scheme, but some buried part of him believed that Kaal suffered not only from the food, but also from its own concealed punishment. Tony wasn't getting the whole story. Kaal shuffled to its cot, gingerly folding his limbs on the thin mattress.

Steve's walk through the park had been pleasant, even if it took a little longer to get over to the east side than he thought it would. It was a bright afternoon, which made it all the more noticeable that Captain America was taking a stroll. He remembered when he used to stroll in the park. Nobody noticed a nobody.

When he finally reached the other side, he grabbed a few magazines from a newsstand. He didn't know what Gene wanted, so he grabbed a few newspapers and a TIME. He decided to skip over People, which had his face and shield plastered on its glossy cover.

He checked in with the same nurse and continued to Gene's room. Lucy was there again, packed lunches nestled neatly in her lap.

They ate and talked. Lucy dominated most of the conversation, telling Steve about Charles' work. ("Last August, a portrait of you sold for over $20 million. Can you imagine that?" she happily rattled off. Steve only blushed.) They talked and talked, Steve mentally avoiding Gene's cast or the two stalking, invisible threats that still scurried about the city. ("Charles told me to stay at home, but I wouldn't let Gene lie here all by his lonesome," Lucy cast a somber glance at Gene's cast, but again lightened to tell Steve how proud she and Charles were about Paul's good GRE scores.) But after many laughs and Lucy procuring sandwich after sandwich for Steve ("Superheroes have to eat too."), the winter sun begun its early-afternoon decline and she packed up and left, leaving a gentle kiss on Gene's forehead.

Gene and Steve tried in vain to keep the conversation light, but between Gene's more-than-occasionally labored breaths and grunts, it was difficult. They paused again and again until Steve asked, "What happened…after that day?"

"What day?"

"Where did you go?" Steve crossed his arms in his lap.

Gene sighed, but answered. "We moved out of New York. Went to Pennsylvania, some small town."

"What about your…your dad?"

"What about him?"

"Did he hurt you?"

"He never gave me black eyes or nothin' like that," Gene spat. He softened and added, "We drifted apart—lots of silent dinners—that's all in the past now."

Steve leaned forward. "How could he do that?"

"How can any parent do that?" Gene shrugged. The memory was buried deeply enough to smother the pangs, but still Gene scratched his arm. "Never went back after the war. My sister was married by the time the war was over. Mom died of the flu before long before that. Nothing to go back to." Gene looked out the window, avoiding Steve's pained eyes.

Steve ran his fingers through his hair. A nurse poked her head in to check on Gene's IV and made sure he took his pain meds. Steve noticed that those were the only ones they ever delivered to him, but tried not to think of the one pressing implication in the corner of his mind.

"What happened to your dad?"

Gene was silent for a long time. The five minutes passed like an hour, but then he said, "I got a letter in the mail…He died a little after Margaret and I were finally married. My sister and I buried him, and that was that."

"That's terrible."

"Is it?" Gene asked quietly. "We had had our good years. That's more than a lot of people can say of their fathers."

"But he neglected you, Gene."

"Now you listen here, Steve. Our exchanges may have been minimal, but he never neglected me or my sister." Gene quieted himself, noting the hurt in Steve's eyes. "He—he just didn't understand, Steve. How could he? Thought of two men…doing that probably never crossed his mind before. It was a long time ago, what else was he supposed to think?" Gene paused again and coughed. "I always sent him letters…it may not have been much, but…sometimes he answered."

"Did you ever go visit?"

"Once. It was amicable, nice even."

Steve had more to ask, so many questions left unanswered, but decided not to pursue them, letting them rest and expire. "Enough about that."

Their conversation returned to Paul again ("Maybe goin' to a MA program he hates will get him started on the right path. He's young, right? Anything can happen.") They talked about Gene's string of jobs that went here and there, finally ending with him as a high school teacher. ("Where did you teach?" "Where else? Back in Brooklyn.")

Finally, Steve's romantic life came up. He nearly choked on his coffee. Gene always had a knack for saying what needed to be said in a manner simultaneously expected and unpredictable.

"Come on. You're a goddamn superhero, you have the pick of 'em," Gene prodded.

"It's sort of complicated."

"I don't think it is. It looks pretty simple, actually," Gene lightly said.

"How do you mean?" Steve was already red.

Gene furrowed his brow, and decided that he might as well bring the obvious up. "I don't know about you, Steve. But when I saw that Stark come 'n get you the other day, the look in his eyes…there's something there."

"You mean—"

Gene interrupted with a weak chuckle. "Do I gotta spell it out for you, Rogers? The man's got it bad…he loves you."

"How can you be sure?" Steve rapidly and mindlessly flipped through his TIME magazine, and paused over a couple photos of them.

"'Cause. I've seen that look before," Gene said simply and openly. Good old Gene.

Steve's mind was all Tony, Tony, Tony. It was something so obvious, yet clouded. The brave face, all the evenings they shared, every moment since Tony fell like a flaming star from the portal, which hung above Manhattan. He remembered the wretchedness squirming in the pit of his stomach as he ran his fingers over the darkened Arc reactor. And how his eyes and heart burned when Hulk's roar brought him back. Gene smiled as Steve's face broke into a small grin.

"If I had a mirror, you'd see the exact same look in your eyes. Feeling's mutual, it seems." Gene paused, carefully choosing his words. He sat up in his bed. "Life's short—sometimes long. I guess I'd be proof of that much…point is, you never know how long you'll get."

"But—"

"But nothing, Steve." Gene drew closer to Steve. "We've seen the best and worst of what the world has to offer. Never heard of Captain America gettin' cold feet."

Steve only smiled wider. He knew he didn't need a blessing or anything. But the quiet kind confirmation lit something in his chest. It was worth a try, he decided.

Gene's bland dinner arrived. Steve helped him open the small carton of milk, but Gene waved him away. "I might be old, but I can still hold a spoon." Steve laughed.

After dinner, the sun began its orange descent and peaked brightly through the skyscrapers and glass. Visiting hours were ending and Steve packed up and left, promising Gene to tell him if things worked out with Tony.

"Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight, Gene."

Dinner was quiet again. They shared a greasy pizza in the lab. Tony sort of insisted on it. A small cloud still hung over Steve's demeanor, but he felt hopeful—if nothing else the tender hope extinguished the sad pressures of Gene's decline.

Tony looked away, still pondering and eyes wandering. Doubt they'd be able to do anything if Kaal's condition worsened. Even worse would be the loss of their only lead. There were no more blips on the radar, no sign of the bread trail they left behind. No, no, the other two did away with those as soon as Kaal was captured. Things were about to get complicated and heavy, and Tony's pizza grew cold and unappetizing in his hand. Anything could happen now.

Tony walked over to the cabinet for another cheap bottle of wine and brushed against Steve's arm. "You still look a little shaken from your session today," Rogers said.

"Yeah. Maybe." Tony muttered. ("Foolish human, do you not know your own heart?")

They ate more in silence. Once the pizza was done, Dummy cleared the table, missing the trashcan. Steve settled in at Tony's sketching table. He sat there tapping his pencil, unable to shake Gene's words. Tony lay on the couch, Kaal still circling around in his conscious' murky waters. Even though Steve continued tapping his pencil, Tony needed to glance over every now and then to make sure he hadn't vanished. Steve noticed.

Steve only brought the pencil's eraser to his lips.

"Something on your mind?" Tony asked.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Lay it on me," Tony said as he sat up. He patted the empty seat next to him.

Steve paused, face skewed with a deep consternation. He started to say something, but stopped himself. Tony caught the dance of nerves behind Steve's downward glance.

"You can tell me anything, Steve. You know that."

Steve approached the couch and sat slowly, his blue eyes never leaving Tony's. He sighed and eyed the blue light on Tony's chest and imagined it dark and still, lifeless. He envisioned the tiny pieces of deadly shrapnel moving toward Stark's heart. Tony leaned in closer, catching haunted airs from Steve's shuddering and vulnerable hands.

"We don't have forever, Tony," Steve said, low and ponderous.

"What do you mean?" Tony's heart raced. Somehow, Tony's gut knew where Steve was going. Theirs was a business of death—any way one can frame it, it still plays out the same way; for every man, woman and child they shielded from harm's wild path, there was another who slipped through their fingers. It was an inevitability, they both knew that. But still they fought against the entropic tide. Side by side.

Every fleeting grasp of comfort and affection they were thankful for—every time Tony woke up with a blanket covering his cold shoulders, or every second Steve had spent musing with Tony, happiness coursing over and drowning every buried doubt or regret or emptiness.

Steve looked away, his veins flooding his face with red. Tony took Steve's powerful hands in his callused grip, holding tight.

"Tony?"

"Yes, Steve?"

"Can…can I kiss you? Please?"

Tony nodded, but still Steve hesitated. Tony hooked a hand around the other's neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the soft strands of his blonde hair. He tugged and finally brought them together.

Steve was eager, as if he could capture with his lips time lost. Tony reciprocated, trying to give Steve every strand and fiber of comfort he could.

Tony turned to more to him and placed a hand on Steve's knee to stabilize himself against Steve's hungry kiss. Steve places powerful palm over the arc reactor, feeling its steady hum beneath his touch. Tony straddled Steve's thighs, nipping the nape of Steve's neck along the way. Steve reveled in the scratch of Tony's goatee and took in every sensation as separate proofs that the kiss was real, signed and sealed by the icy depths that brought the two together.

"Tony," Steve gasped.

The other answered by slowly pushing his tongue past Steve's lips and he accepted it gladly, almost as if he wouldn't get another opportunity to soothe his yearning. He had to take it. Tony rested his hands against Steve's chest, feeling the rise and fall of chest and the drumming of his mighty heart, counting the latters beats and losing track. Tony's mouth was visited by Steve's tongue. He wanted to taste every inch of him, he didn't even care if their mouths met anymore, Steve's cheek and the curves of his jaw were enough. Steve was visited by a voracious need—one of reassurance and cheer, a promise that brighter days would be won.

They rested, taking in deep breaths. Tony rested his forehead against Steve's, his head swimming in excitement and Steve's deep inhalations, as if his senses demanded to be flooded with Steve's presence, something, that he could get used to.

Steve wiped dewiness from his eye.

"Something wrong?" Tony whispered.

"It's nothing," Steve said. "You just…you just made me so happy."

Tony smiled and silenced him with another lunge.

They moved to the bed, exploring each other's skin with mouths and touches. They went slowly, but Tony didn't mind. He was excited to dwell on Steve's form and the firm ripples of muscle. Steve took in Tony's face, whose lines of doubt and stress retreated. They were silent save for their groans and deep breaths.

At last they stopped kissing and Tony counted the small bruises along his neck and shoulders until he drifted off to sleep. Steve's arms were behind his head and Tony burrowed into his side and snored softly, buried beneath the thick covers of his King size bed. Steve at last was able to rest.


End file.
